Mortimer found that he could take an “L” train to the Bridge, and transfer there to another taking him direct to the course. At the Bridge he was thrust into a motley crowd, eager, expectant, full of joyous anticipation of assured good luck. He was but a tiny unit of this many-voiced throng; he drifted a speck on the bosom of the flood that poured into the waiting race train. He was tossed into a seat by the swirling tide, and as the train moved he looked at his fellow-passengers. There was a pleasant air of opulence all about him. Gold chains of fair prominence, diamonds of lustrous hue, decorated the always rotund figures. He fell to wondering why the men were all of a gross physique; why did the ladies wear dresses of such interminable variety of color; from whence came the money for this plethora of rich apparel?

The race literature that had come Mortimer's way had generally dealt with the unfortunate part of racing. Somehow he had got the impression that everybody lost money at it. He was sure Alan Porter had, also the father.

True, on the train were some bearing undeniable evidences of poverty; but not many. One man of this latter unfortunate aspect sat next him. His whole appearance was suggestive of the shady side of life. With the industry of a student he pored over a disheveled sporting paper for half an hour, then throwing it under the seat he cast a furtive look at his neighbor, and presently said, “Dere'll be big fields to-day.”

“That's too bad,” Mortimer answered, through ignorance, thinking that the other referred to perhaps a considerable walk across country to reach the course.

“I like it,” declared the man of sad drapery; “it means long odds if you're next somethin' good.”

Mortimer confined his remarks to a brief “Oh!” for the other man might as well have been speaking Choctaw.

“Have you doped 'em out for de Derby?” asked the stranger.

Mortimer shook his head. Whatever it was it was connected with horse racing, and he felt sure that he hadn't done it.

“Well, I'll tell you somethin'—will you put down a good bet if I steer you straight?”

Mortimer was growing weary; his mind, troubled by the frightful disaster that threatened Allis's family, wanted to draw within itself and ponder deeply over a proper course of action; so he answered: “My dear sir, I'm afraid you're mistaken. I never bet on races. But I thank you for your kind offer.”

The unwashed face looked at him in blank amazement, then it wrinkled in a mirthful laugh of derision. “What d' 'ell you goin' to Gravesend for, den? Blamed if I don't believe you dough—you look it. Say, is dat straight goods—did you never have a bet in your life?”

“Never did.”

“Well, I'm damned! Say, I believe you've got de best of it, dough. Wish I'd never bucked ag'in' de bookies.”

“Why don't you stop it now, then?”

“Say, pard, do you drink?”

“No.”

“Smoke?”

“No.”

A hopeless air of utter defeat came into the thin, sharp face. Its owner had been searching for a simile. He wanted to point a moral and he couldn't find it. The young man at his elbow was too immaculate. He tried to explain: “Racin's like any other locoed t'ing—it's like tobacco, or drink, or stealin' money out of a bank—”

Mortimer shivered. He had felt a moral superiority in denying the implied bad habits.

“It's like any of 'em,” continued the ragged philosopher; “a guy starts simply as a kid, an' he gets de t'row-down. He takes a bracer at himself, and swears he'll give it de go-by, but he can't—not on your life.”

Mortimer had read much about confidence men, and half expected that his self-imposed acquaintance would try to borrow money, but he was disillusionized presently.

“But de ring ain't broke Ole Bill yet. I'll clean up a t'ousand to-day—say, I like your mug; you ain't no stiff, or I miss my guess, an' I'll put you, next a good t'ing, damme if I don't, an' you don't need to divvy up, neither. Dere's a chestnut runnin' in de Derby what dey call Larcen, an' I'm goin' to plank down a hun'red chicks on him.”

He detected a look of incredulous unbelief in Mortimer's face, evidently, for he added, “You t'ink I ain't got no dough, eh?” He dug down into the folds of his somewhat voluminous “pants” and drew forth a fair-sized roll. “See? That wad goes to Larcen straight. I see him do a gallop good enough for my stuf; but dey got a stable-boy on him, an' dat's why he'll be ten to one. But dat don't cut no ice wit' me. He'll be out for de goods; it's a gal owns him, an' dere'll be nut'in' doin'. Gal's name's Porter.”

Again Mortimer started. What a little world it was, to be sure! Even here on the ferry boat, crowded with men of unchristian aspect, he heard the name of the woman he loved, and standing symbolical of honesty.

“What's the name of this—this horse?” he asked.

“Larcen.”

“Do you mean Lauzanne?”

“Yes, dat's it. I jes' heered it, an' I t'ought it was Larcen. You've got it straight, stranger. Say, are you wise to anyt'in'?”

“Not about the horse; but I know the people—the young lady; and they'll win if they can—that's sure.”

“Dere won't be many dead 'uns in de Derby. First money's good enough fer most of de owners. First horse, I see him gallop like a good 'un. An' I'm a piker; I like a bit of odds fer my stuff.”

Mortimer saw the other occupants of the train moving toward the front end.

“I guess we're dere,” said his companion; “perhaps I'll see you on de course. If you make a break to-day, play Larcen; he'll win. Say, I didn't catch your name.”

“Mortimer.”

“Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Morton. See you later.”

* * * * * * * * * *

In his ignorance of a race meet Mortimer had felt sure he would be able to find Alan Porter without trouble. The true difficulty of his quest soon dawned upon him. Wedged into the pushing, shoving, hurrying crowd, in three minutes he had completely lost himself. A dozen times he rearranged his bearings, taking a certain flight of steps leading up to the grand stand as the base of his peregrinations; a dozen times he returned to this point, having accomplished nothing but complete bewilderment.

He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to bother with him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and many tendered flippant remarks, such as “Ask a policeman;” “You'll find him in the bar;” “He's gone to Europe.”

Even Mortimer's unpracticed mind realized speedily that it would be nothing short of a miracle if he were to find anyone in all those inpatient thousands who even knew the person he was seeking. One young man he spoke to declared that he knew Alan Porter quite well; he was a great friend of his; he'd find him in a minute. This obliging stranger's quest led them into the long race track bar room, which somehow or other suggested to Mortimer a cattle shambles.

Behind the bar young men in white coats, even some in their shirt sleeves, were setting forth on its top, with feverish haste, clinking glasses that foamed and fretted much like the thirsty souls who called vociferously for liquid refreshment. Everybody seemed on fire—burnt up by the thirst of a consuming fever, the fever of speculation.

Mortimer's new friend suggested that they indulge in beer while waiting for the sought one's appearance, and waxing confidential he assured his quarry that he had a leadpipe cinch for the next race—it couldn't lose. The trainer was a bosom friend of his; a sort of hybrid brother in friendship. He himself was no tipster, he was an owner; he even went the length of flashing a bright yellow badge, as occult evidence of his standing.

These matters did not interest the searcher in the slightest; they only wasted his precious time. If he did not find Alan Porter soon the stolen money would be lost, he felt sure.

“I must find my friend,” he said, cutting the garrulous man short. “Excuse me, I'll go and look for him.”

But the other was insistent; ferret-like, he had unearthed good meat—a rare green one—and he felt indisposed to let his prey escape. His insistence matured into insolence as Mortimer spoke somewhat sharply to him. Ignorant of racing as the latter was, he was hardly a man to take liberties with once he recognized the infringement. The enormity of his mission and the possibility that it might be frustrated by his undesirable tormentor, made him savage. Raised to quick fury by a vicious remark of the tout who held him in leash, he suddenly stretched out a strong hand, and, seizing his insulter by the collar, gave him a quick twist that laid him on his back. Mortimer held him there, squirming for a full minute, while men gathered so close that the air became stifling.

Presently a heavy hand was laid on Mortimer's shoulder and a gruff policeman's voice asked, “What's the matter here?”

“Nothing much,” Mortimer replied, releasing his hold and straightening up; “this blackguard wanted me to bet on some horse, and when I refused, insulted me; that's all.”

The other man had risen, his face purple from the twist at his throat. The officer looked at him.

“At it again, Mr. Bunco. I'll take care of him,” he continued, turning to Mortimer. “He's a tout. Out you go,” this to the other man. Then, tickled in the ribs by the end of the policeman's baton, the tout was driven from the enclosure; the spectators merged into a larger crowd, and Mortimer was left once more to pursue his fruitless search.

As he emerged into the open of the lawn he saw a gentleman standing somewhat listlessly, self-absorbed, as though he were not a party to the incessant turmoil of the others, who were as men mad.

With a faith born of limited experience, Mortimer risked another hazard. He would ask this complacent one for guidance. What he had to do justified all chances of rebuke.

“Pardon me, sir,” he began, “I am looking for a young friend of mine whose people own race horses. Where would I be likely to find him?”

“If he's an owner he'll probably be in the paddock,” replied the composed one.

“Could you tell me where the paddock is?”

“To the right,” and sweeping his arm in that direction the stranger sank back into his inner consciousness, and blinked his eyes languidly, as though the unusual exertion of answering his inquisitor's questions had decidedly bored him.

“That man is one in a thousand; yea, forty thousand, for he is a stranger to excitement,” Mortimer said to himself, as he strode rapidly across the grass to a gate which opened in the direction the other had indicated. His eagerness had almost carried him through the gateway when a strong arm thrown across his chest, none too gently, barred his further progress.

“Show your badge, please,” cried a voice.

Mortimer exposed the pasteboard he had acquired on his entry to the stand.

“You can't pass in here,” said the guardian; “that's only good for the stand.”

“But,” began Mortimer.

“Stand aside—make room, please!” from the gatekeeper, cut short his conversation.

Others were waiting to pass through. In despair he gave up his untenable place, and once more was swallowed in the maelstrom of humanity that eddied about the stand enclosure.

As he was heading for his rock of locality, the stairway, hurrying somewhat recklessly, he ran with disturbing violence full tilt into a man who had erratically turned to his left, when according to all laws of the road he should have kept straight on.

“I beg pardon—” began Mortimer; then stared in blank amazement, cutting short his apology. The victim of his assault was Mr. Crane. The latter's close-lidded eyes had rounded open perceptibly in a look of surprise.

“Mr. Mortimer!” he exclaimed, “You here? May I ask who's running the bank?”

Anxious about the stolen money the sudden advent of Crane on his immediate horizon threw the young man into momentary confusion. “My mother was ill—I got leave—I had to see Alan Porter—I've come here to find him. They'll manage all right at the bank without me.”

He fired his volley of explanation at his employer with the rapidity of a Maxim gun. Truth and what he considered excusable falsehood came forth with equal volubility. Crane, somewhat mollified, and feeling that at first he had spoken rather sharply, became more gracious. At sight of Mortimer he had concluded that it was to see Allis the young man had come, perhaps at her instigation.

“Have you seen Alan Porter, sir?” Mortimer asked, anxiously.

“I did, but that was about an hour ago. You will probably find him”—he was going to say—“in the paddock with his sister,” but for reasons he refrained; “let me see, most likely sitting up in the grand stand.”

As Mortimer stood scanning the sea of faces that rose wave on wave above him, Mr. Crane said, “I hope you found your mother better. If I see Alan I'll tell him you are looking for him.”

When Mortimer turned around Crane had gone. He had meant to ask about the race Porter's horse Lauzanne was in, but had hesitated for fear he should say something which might give rise to a suspicion of his errand. He heard the rolling thunder of hoof beats in the air. From where he stood, over the heads of many people he could see gaudy colored silk jackets coming swiftly up the broad straight boulevard of the race course; even as he looked they passed by with a peculiar bobbing up-and-down motion. The effect was grotesque, for he could not see the horses, could not see the motive power which carried the bright-colored riders at such a terrific pace.

A thought flashed through his mind that it might be the Derby.

“What race is that?” he asked of one who stood at his elbow.

The man's face wore a sullen, discontented look, and no wonder, for he had, with misplaced confidence, wagered many dollars on a horse that was even then prancing gaily in many yards behind the winner.

“Do you know what race that was?” Mortimer repeated, thinking the silent one had not heard him.

“Why don't you look at your race card?” retorted the jaundiced loser, transporting himself and his troubles to the haven of liquid consolation.

His answer, curt as it was, gave Mortimer an inspiration. He looked about and saw many men consulting small paper pamphlets; they were like people in an art gallery, catalogue in hand.

By chance, Mortimer observed a young man selling these race catalogues, as he innocently named them. He procured one, and the seller in answer to a question told him it was the third race he had just seen, and the next would be the Brooklyn Derby.

There it was, all set forth in the programme he had just purchased. Seven horses to start, all with names unfamiliar except The Dutchman and Lauzanne. He had almost given up looking for Alan; it seemed so hopeless. At any rate he had tried his best to save the boy's honor; told deliberate lies to do it. Now it was pretty much in the hands of fate. He remembered what Alan had said about The Dutchman's certain chance of winning the coming race. He felt that if the horse won, Alan would put back the stolen thousand dollars; if not, where would the boy get money to cover up his theft?

It had seemed to Mortimer a foolish, desperate thing to risk money on anything so uncertain as a horse race; but here was at stake the honor of a bright, splendid young man—even the happiness of his parents, which the poor, deluded boy had wagered on one horse's chance of winning against six others. It was terrible. Mortimer shuddered, and closed his eyes when he thought of the misery, the shame, that would come to Allis and her mother when they knew, as they must, if Crane's horse were beaten, that the son was a thief. Oh, God! why couldn't he find the boy and save him before it was too late? Probably Alan had already betted the money; but even if that were so, he had vain visions of forcing the man who had received the stolen thousand to disgorge. No one had a right to receive stolen money; and if necessary, Mortimer would give him to understand that he was making himself a party to the crime.

But the mere fact that he couldn't find Alan Porter rendered him as helpless as a babe; he might as well have remained in the bank that day. How willingly he would have hastened back and replaced the money if he but had it. For Allis's sake he would have beggared himself, would have sacrificed a hundred times that sum to save her from the unutterable misery that must come if her brother were denounced as a felon. The love that was in him was overmastering him.

He was roused from his despondent train of thought by speech that struck with familiar jar upon his ear. It was the voice of the man who had descanted on the pleasures of betting during their journey from New York.

“What dye t'ink of it, pard?” was the first salutation.

Mortimer stammered the weak information that he didn't know what to think of it.

“Dere ain't no flies on us to-day—I'm knockin' 'em out in great shape. Can't pick a loser, blamed if I can. I've lined up for a cash-in tree times, an' I'll make it four straight, sure. Larcen'll come home all alone; you see if he don't.”

“I hope so,” rejoined Mortimer.

“I say, Mister Morton, put down a bet on him—he's good business; put a 'V' on, an' rake down fifty—dat'll pay your ex's. De talent's goin' for De Dutchman, but don't make no mistake about de other, he'll win.”

In an instant the young man knew why this persistent worrier of a tortured spirit had been sent him. Fate gave him the cue; it whispered in his ear, “Put down a hundred—you have it—and win a thousand; then you can save Alan Porter—can keep this misery from the girl that is to you as your own life.”

Mortimer listened eagerly; to the babbler at his side; to the whisper in his ear; to himself, that spoke within himself. Even if it were not all true, if Lauzanne were beaten, what of it? He would lose a hundred dollars, but that would not ruin him; it would cause him to save and pinch a little, but he was accustomed to self-denial.

“Will the betting men take a hundred dollars from me on this horse, Lauzanne?” he asked, after the minute's pause, during which these thoughts had flashed through his mind.

“Will dey take a hundred? Will dey take a t'ousand! Say, what you givin' me?”

“If Lauzanne won, I'd win a thousand, would I?”

“If you put it down straight; but you might play safe—split de hundred, fifty each way, win an' show; Larcen'll be one, two, tree, sure.”

“I want to win a thousand,” declared Mortimer.

“Den you've got to plump fer a win; he's ten to one.”

Mortimer could hardly understand himself; he was falling in with the betting idea. It was an age since he stood at his desk in that bank, abhorrent of all gambling methods, to the present moment, when he was actually drawing from his pocket a roll of bills with which to bet on a horse.

He took a despairing look through the thicket of human beings that made a living forest all about, in a last endeavor to discover Alan Porter. Not three paces away a uniquely familiar figure was threading in and out the changing maze-it was Mike Gaynor.

Mortimer broke from his friend, and with quick steps reached the trainer's side.

“I want to find Alan Porter,” he said, in answer to Gaynor's surprised salutation.

“He was in the paddock a bit ago,” answered Mike; “he moight be there still.”

Almost involuntarily Mortimer, as he talked, had edged back toward his friend of disconsolate raggedness.

“I wanted to go in there—I'd like to go now to find him, but they won't let me through the gate.”

“No more they will,” answered Mike, with untruthful readiness, for all at once it occurred to him that if Mortimer got to the paddock he might run up against Allis and recognize her.

“De gent could buy a badge and get in,” volunteered Old Bill.

The lid of Mike's right eye drooped like the slide of a lantern, as he answered: “He couldn't get wan now—it's too late; just wait ye here, sir, and if the b'y's there wit' the nags, I'll sind him out.”

Old Bill made no comment upon Mike's diplomatic misstatement anent the badge, for he had observed the wink, and held true to the masonry which exists between race-course regulars.

“Yes, please send him out then, Mr. Gaynor; it's important.”

“I'm in a hurry meself,” said Mike; “I just come out fer a minute; see here,” and he nodded his head sideways to Mortimer. The latter walked by his side for a few steps.

“Who's that guy?” asked the Trainer.

“I don't know; he calls himself Old Bill.”

“Well, ye best look out—he looks purty tough. What's he playin' ye fer?”

“He advised me to bet money on Lauzanne.”

“The divil he did! What th' yellow moon does he know about the Chestnut; did ye back him?”

“Not yet.”

“Are ye goin' to?”

“I don't know. Do you think Lauzanne might come in first?”

A slight smile relaxed the habitually drawn muscles of Mike's grim visage; it was moons since he had heard anybody talk of a horse “coming in first;” he was indeed a green bettor, this, young man of the counting house. What was he doing there betting at all, Mike wondered. It must be because of his interest in the girl, his reason answered.

“I tink he'll win if he does his best for her.”

“Does his best for who?”

Mike got to cover; his ungoverned tongue was always playing him tricks.

“Miss Allis is managin' the horses,” he explained, very deliberately, “an' there's a new b'y up on Lauzanne's back, d'ye onderstand; an' if the Chestnut doesn't sulk, does his best fer the young misthress that'll be watchin' him here in the stand wit' tears in her eyes, he moight win—d'ye onderstand?”

Yes, Mortimer understood; it seemed quite clear, for Mike had been to some pains to cover up the slip he had made.

“Now I must go,” he continued; “an' ye needn't come in the paddock—if the b'y is there, I'll sind him out.”

When Alan's seeker returned to Old Bill, he said, “Mr. Gaynor thinks your choice might come in first.”

“Why was Irish steerin' you clear of de paddock?” asked the other.

“I suppose it was to save me the expense of buying a ticket for it.”

The other man said nothing further, but the remembrance of Mike's wink convinced him that this was not the sole reason.

They waited for young Porter's appearance, but he did not come. “The geezer yer waitin' fer is not in dere or he'd a-showed up,” said Old Bill; “an' if yer goin' to take de tip, we'd better skip to de ring an' see what's doin'.”

Mortimer had once visited the stock exchange in New York. He could not help but think how like unto it was the betting ring with its horde of pushing, struggling humans, as he wormed his way in, following close on Old Bill's heels. There was a sort of mechanical aptness in his leader's way of displacing men in his path. Mortimer realized that but for his guide he never would have penetrated beyond the outer shell of the buzzing hive. Even then he hoped that he might, by the direction of chance, see Alan Porter. The issue at stake, and the prospect of its solution through his unwonted betting endeavor, was dispelling his inherent antipathy to gambling; he was becoming like one drunken with the glamour of a new delight; his continued desire to discover young Porter was more a rendering of tithes to his former god of chastity which he was about to shatter.

Two days before betting on horse races was a crime of indecent enormity; now it seemed absolutely excusable, justified, almost something to be eagerly approved of. Their ingress, though strenuous, was devoid of rapidity; so, beyond much bracing of muscles, there was little to take cognizance of except his own mental transformation. Once he had known a minister, a very good man indeed, who had been forced into a fight. The clergyman had acted his unwilling part with such muscular enthusiasm that his brutish opponent had been reduced to the lethargic condition of inanimate pulp. Mortimer compared his present exploit with that of his friend, the clergyman; he felt that he was very much in the same boat. He was eager to have the bet made and get out into the less congested air; his companions of the betting ring were not men to tarry among in the way of moral recreation.

The mob agitated itself in waves; sometimes he and Old Bill were carried almost across the building by the wash of the living tide as it set in that direction; then an undertow would sweep them back again close to their starting point. The individual members of the throng were certainly possessed of innumerable elbows, and large jointed knees, and boots that were forever raking at his heels or his corns. They seemed taller, too, than men in the open; strive as he might he could see nothing—nothing but heads that topped him in every direction. Once the proud possessor of a dreadful cigar of unrivaled odor became sandwiched between him and his fellow-pilgrim; he was down wind from the weed and its worker, and the result was all but asphyxiation.

At last they reached some sort of a harbor; it was evidently an inlet for which his pilot had been sailing. A much composed man in a tweed suit, across which screamed lines of gaudy color, sat on a camp stool, with a weary, tolerant look on his browned face; in his hand was a card on which was penciled the names of the Derby runners with their commercial standing in the betting mart.

Old Bill craned his neck over the shoulder of the sitting man, scanned the book, and turning to Mortimer said, “Larcen's nine to one now; dey're cuttin' him—wish I'd took tens; let's go down de line.”

They pushed out into the sea again, and were buffeted of the human waves; from time to time Old Bill anchored for a few seconds in the tiny harbor which surrounded each bookmaker; but it was as though they were all in league—the same odds on every list.

“It's same as a 'sociation book,” he grunted; “de cut holds in every blasted one of 'em. Here's Jakey Faust,” he added, suddenly; “let's try him.”

“What price's Laxcen?” he asked of the fat bookmaker.

“What race is he in?” questioned the penciler.

“Din race; what you givin' me!”

“Don't know the horse.”

Mortimer interposed. “The gentleman means Lauzanne,” he explained.

Faust glared in the speaker's face. “Why th' 'll don't he talk English then; I'm no Chinaman, or a mind reader, to guess what he wants. Lauzanne is nine to one; how much dye want?”

“Lay me ten?” asked Old Bill of the bookmaker.

“To how much?”

“A hun'red; an' me frien' wants a hun'red on, too.”

“I'll do it,” declared Faust, impatiently. “Ten hundred to one, Lauzanne!” he called over his shoulder to his clerk, taking the bettor's money; “an' the number is—?”

“Twenty-five, tree-four-six!” answered Old Bill. “Pass him yer dust,” he continued, turning to his companion.

The latter handed his money to Faust.

“Lauzanne!” advised Old Bill.

“A thousand-to-hundred-Lauzanne, win; an' the number is” he stretched out his hand, and turning over Mortimer's dangling badge, read aloud, “Twenty-five, three-five-seven.”

He took a sharp look at the two men; his practised eye told him they were not plungers, more of the class that usually bet ten dollars at the outside; they were evidently betting on information; two one-hundred-dollar bets coming together on Lauzanne probably meant stable money.

“Let's git out, mister,” cried Old Bill, clutching Mortimer's arm.

“Don't I get anything—a receipt, or—”

Faust heard this and laughed derisively. “You won't need nothin' to show for this money,” he said.

“We'll be roun' at de back in a few minutes fer a couple of t'ou',” retorted Old Bill. “Let's cut trough here,” he added to his companion, making a passage between the bookmakers.

Bill's knowledge of the local geography was good, and skirting the crowd they were soon out on the lawn.

“Let's watch de parade,” Mortimer's adjutant suggested, and he led the way down to the course, where they stood against the rail, waiting.