AT luncheon Bishop Chalmers, ensconced snugly between his hostess, the handsome widow, Mrs. Patricia Danvers, and her equally charming daughter, Miss Isabel, sublimated from the seclusion of boarding school to society two seasons before, listened quietly to the many laudatory comments on his sermon of the previous evening.

The sermon had been delivered in the large and fashionable city church of St. Barnabas. Ostensibly it had been on “Charity”; principally it was a plea for aid for the bishop’s struggling diocese in the South. The bishop had received the invitation to preach from the rector of the rich congregation, a classmate at the theological seminary, who occupied a seat at the left of the hostess.

The rector was wifeless, as was the bishop, and after Mrs. Danvers had satisfied herself that she had paid due deference to the bishop she left him to the tender mercies of the daughter.

Mrs. Danvers, Patricia Hardesty that was, had begun life with a devotion to the church, especially its representatives in this mundane sphere. Her impoverished family, painfully aware that dollars were far scarcer than devotion, insisted on her giving up her maidenly intention of wedding a clergyman and urged on her the necessity of marrying Horace Danvers, by no means religious, many years her senior and “interested in cotton.” Now that the cotton had been shelved for all time by the death of the husband, leaving a magnificent golden fleece in its stead, her devotion to “the cloth” had reasserted itself. Witness the bishop as a guest, the presence of the rector.

To the mind of the widow, worldly-minded, even if a devotee, the rector was the far more desirable prospective parti. The bishop was too small to fit her ideal. Her fancy was for large blond men who, in the pulpit, have the appearance of Greek gods brought up to date by the saving grace of the surplice. The rector was one of these.

Although Bishop Chalmers was below medium height, with anything but a robust figure, he had a striking face. It was clean-shaven, ascetic and of cameo-like clearness. The nose itself was indicative of ancestry, the mouth was sensitive yet strong, and his blue eyes were remarkable for their depth and expression of sadness. His silvery gray hair belied his age, not yet fifty years. Pride of vocation and of race showed itself in every feature.

The adoring women of his diocese were accustomed to describe the bishop as one who was never known to smile.

“When his wife died he lost interest in everything but his life work,” they were accustomed to say. “He reveres her memory as that of a saint. Her death cast a shadow over his life, poor little bishop!”

That was not the underlying cause of his sadness. In the ecclesiastical closet—a sanctum the interior of which none might see—a skeleton was concealed.

As Mrs. Danvers glanced to her right with uninterrupted speech to the rector, she smiled with satisfaction to see that the daughter was cleverly holding the attention of the distinguished guest. The girl had taken up the subject-thread of conversation where her mother had dropped it.

“In your sermon I was greatly impressed by the story you told of the unknown donor who each year sent you the large sum of money for your diocesan work,” she was saying. “It appears so strange that anyone should wish to conceal identity where such good work is concerned. You have no intimation as to his or her identity?” she asked.

The bishop shook his head.

“Not the slightest. The nearest I have approached is to learn the name of the bankers through whom the annual donation is made. It is a good seed sown in a fruitful field, and some day the sower will reap harvest an hundredfold,” he declared, reverently.

Of course Miss Isobel was properly impressed. She said nothing for a little. She was a bright, butterfly sort of creature, whose veil of innocence and apparent ingenuousness hid a nature which delighted in sacrificing dignity and reserve to her mischief-making propensities. She was of the kind ever ready to revert to the subject of round dances or divorce with a High Church dignitary.

This idiosyncrasy asserted itself when she said to her listener, with her well-feigned air of irresponsibility:

“Bishop, I should greatly like to have the pleasure of taking you this afternoon for a spin in my runabout, had I not an engagement to see the Derby run. Besides my promise to go, my favorite jockey is to ride in this race, and I cannot miss the chance of winning or losing kid gloves or bonbons on his horse. I suppose it is very sinful,” she sighed, resignedly, glancing with challenging eyes at the bishop.

Emboldened, though disappointed, perhaps, by the fact that he did not appear shocked or surprised, she continued in a tone wherein earnestness and raillery were mingled:

“Could you reconcile your conscience so far as to accompany me to such a sinful place as the race course, bishop?”

For a time, so long that the silence grew painful, the bishop made no sign that he had heard. She noted a look on his face—was it one of offended dignity or simple disgust at her daring? She could not determine. Already she had framed an apology, when he said, without lifting his eyes:

“Is it really so sinful?” continuing, quickly: “I do not doubt that it is, and, perhaps, it may strike you as being strange and unworthy of my calling, but for just once I should like to see the inside of a race course.”

For some reason the statement struck a chord of sympathy in the girl’s heart. It was in the nature of a confession.

“It is a beautiful sight, bishop,” she hastened to reply, thinking of nothing less inane as her mind struggled to find reason for his admission. “The horses, with their coats like satin, the jockeys in their bright colors, the excited throng of spectators and the velvety greensward. One jockey is a special favorite among the girls of the ‘horsy’ set,” she continued, now fairly advanced in her stride, figuratively speaking. “He’s a darling!”—ecstatically. “I surely believe half the women attend the races simply to see him ride, and all of them make wagers on his mounts.” She paused for a moment and glanced at the bishop. He did not appear offended. “When his horse wins and he returns to the judges’ stand they cheer him and wave their handkerchiefs, and some even throw kisses at him. He doesn’t notice it, though, for he never even smiles, but only looks up at the Blaisdell box.”

“Blaisdell?” echoed the bishop.

“Yes, ex-Secretary Blaisdell. Rumor says that Bettina Blaisdell wants to marry him, but, of course, the family couldn’t countenance such a thing—her becoming the wife of a jockey. It is reported he is of an excellent family, however, and rides under a nom de course.”

“And this name—what is it?” inquired the bishop, scarcely above a whisper. Feverishly, almost, he appeared to wait for an answer.

“Nowell—of course it is an assumed one——” She would have said more, but the words were checked on her lips, and she was staring at her companion in undisguised astonishment. His head was bowed over, and the hand, one finger of which held the episcopal ring, was trembling violently. In a moment he had regained composure.

“Tell me of this race,” he said, in his accustomed well modulated voice. “Does this—jockey”—the word came with an effort—“ride for Mr. Blaisdell altogether? Is it the Blaisdell who was once in the Cabinet?”

Eagerness was evinced in his voice, his expression, the attitude in which he leaned toward his fair informant.

“Ex-Secretary Blaisdell—the one formerly in the senate, you know. He is more interested in the ponies now than in politics,” she said, dropping unconsciously into slang. “He was thinking of selling off all his race horses, when he discovered this jockey, who is said to get a princely salary. Mr. Blaisdell treats him almost as a son.”

The bishop winced.

“And this particular race—you call it the Derby, I believe?” he ventured.

“It’s the greatest racing event of the year. The papers this morning were full of it. Secretary Blaisdell has set his heart on winning it with Nowell and Ixion, his favorite race horse. He is tipped by all the papers, and will be the favorite. That is, it is believed he has the best chance of winning, you know,” she explained. “Ixion and Nowell are a winning combination.”

“Where is the race to take place?” persisted the bishop.

“At the Ravenswood Park race course,” answered the girl, and then, impulsively: “Why, bishop, I might almost be tempted to believe that you are going! Why not let me take you?” she pleaded, coaxingly, with sweet, pursed-up lips and chin stuck out coquettishly toward him.

She pictured to herself what a sensation she would create with a bishop on parade at the races. Well she knew that not a few would be there who would recognize them both, and she could imagine herself the cynosure of the eyes of hundreds of churchgoers transformed into racegoers on this Derby day.

The idea was positively entrancing! With glowing eyes and cheeks flushed at the thought, Miss Danvers awaited the bishop’s reply. It was merely a shake of the head, without comment on her daring.

Then the mother, having overheard the latter part of the conversation, turned to her daughter with gentle reproof:

“I’m surprised at you, Isobel, having the audacity to extend such an invitation to a bishop. It’s shocking bad taste, really. I’m ashamed of you.”

Naturally the conversation drifted into other channels.

During the rest of the meal the bishop was strangely distracted. On more than one occasion his hostess found it necessary to address the same remark to him, whereat he excused himself somewhat lamely for his inattention.

After they had risen from the board he pleaded some matter that needed his especial care, and retired to his chamber. Probably a half hour later Mrs. Danvers and the rector, who remained to talk over church affairs, saw the bishop descend the main stairway near the drawing room.

“He wishes to be alone still. I can tell by his expression,” said the rector. “I know him like a book. A queer man in some ways, but no better anywhere. Inclined too much to melancholy, and a trifle too straitlaced for his advanced age, perhaps.”

In his own chamber the bishop had gone over in his own mind, not once, but a hundred times, the question, at the present the one momentous to him above all others, should he visit the race course that afternoon to see the Derby run? A thousand reasons had suggested themselves why he should not do so. One why he should stood forth clearly and plainly. When all had been turned over in his mind, something told him “Go!”

But how should he go? As he was, his clothes of severe clerical cut singling him out for the sneers of the unrighteous? He would not deny his Master. In his own heart he knew that his presence at the race course meant no intent of desecration of his calling, though he believed horse racing was one of the unpardonable sins.

So his mind was settled that he should go!

At the street corner he bought a newspaper. In it he read that the great Derby would be decided about four P.M. By inquiring casually, he learned that the race course was not many minutes distant.

Hailing a passing cab, he asked, in a voice in which he endeavored to hide the shame he felt:

“To the race course, please. Shall I be in time for the Derby race?”

The half-intoxicated driver looked him over carefully before replying, with a leer:

“All the time you want. I’ll take you right there as cheap as anybody, and I’ll give you a tip besides! If this wasn’t my busy day I’d be inside there, too, quick.”

He pointed his whip indefinitely. “Take my tip, sir,” he added, insinuatingly, holding to the swinging door. “Don’t bet a penny on Ixion. Hotspur is the goods to-day. He’ll beat Ixion a mile. You mind what I’m telling you. I’ve got inside information.”

The bishop’s soul was filled with disgust as he stepped inside.

The cabby slammed to the door, whirled the vehicle sharply around and started.

By and by they ran out of the street into an open space with large gates in front, through which people were passing by the uniformed gatekeepers. The bishop could catch the flutter of flags in the air; men and boys were selling sheets of paper and bawling loudly in his ears. Many cabs and carriages and automobiles were “parked” about the inclosure. He paid the driver, who again took occasion to tell him, in a hoarse whisper:

“Take my tip; you won’t be sorry. Bet it all on Hotspur.”

On either side of the gates the bishop saw booths at whose windows men were selling tickets. Approaching a booth, he tendered a five-dollar bill, receiving in return a badge and three dollars. For a moment he hesitated, and looked at the grinning countenance of the ticket seller.

“How much is—this?” he faltered, holding up the badge.

“Grand stand, two dollars; that’s a grand-stand badge.”

The window shut down with a bang, and the small man in black passed through the turnstile, holding out the badge dumbly to the gatekeeper. The man tore off something and handed the larger portion back to him.

As the bishop passed inside he saw a man attach the—to him—badge of iniquity to the lapel of his coat. He himself held the gaudy bit of pasteboard as if its very touch was defiling, and then tossed it on the ground.

Presently he found himself in front of a stand a quarter of a mile long, black with people. So many never had he seen gathered together at one place.

A band was playing back near the grand stand. Men and women jostled him, laughing, chatting, paying no attention. He heard a young man near him say: “Get your program—one dime,” and gave ten cents for the narrow-leaved “racing card.” He stood holding it mechanically in his hand. Though his eyes rested on the verdant green of the infield, they did not see it. They were looking back into the past of little more than four years before. The racegoers shouldered him heedlessly. He hardly realized the discomfort, he had forgotten the place to which he had come, the sights and scenes of the race course on this great Derby day were forgotten.

How well he remembered the other, the day when the crushing blow had fallen on his heart! That had been the real reason for his sadness.

Until that morning, four years before, as fresh in memory as yesterday, the bishop had thought his only son, at college, would follow in the footsteps of the father. He recollected tearing open the missive in the beloved handwriting, and reading the letter which had burned deeply into his memory and his soul.

As he stood looking back into the past, isolated, though surrounded by thousands, he went over it again:

Dear Father: Your last letter, in which you suggested that it was high time I had made the choice of a profession, set me to thinking. As a result I have made my decision.

Father, you know how fond I have been of horseflesh. Do you remember—but of course you do—when I rode in the tournament three years ago, the youngest knight there, I captured the prize and crowned the queen of beauty? You seemed very proud of me then, and when I crowned mother the queen you complimented me on my good taste.

Near the college grounds is a race course, with training stables attached. Owing to my fondness for thoroughbreds, during the winter I have become acquainted with one of the trainers. I told him I could ride, and he let me exercise one of his best racers. He says that I have an excellent seat and hands, and has asked me to go with him as an apprentice boy, after which I will become a first-class jockey—a big thing nowadays. I think I am exceedingly fortunate in having such an opportunity.

You know, father, I never have been very studious. I would rather sit in the saddle all day than be perched on a stool in an office for a few hours. I have heard you yourself say that a man cannot succeed in his vocation unless he is in sympathy with it.

Please don’t oppose me in my choice, for I know I shall make a great name for myself in the turf world, as you are known in that of the church. Hoping to hear from you soon and favorably, I am,

Affectionately, your son,
Lionel.

At first the little bishop had been highly indignant at his son. The idea of his presuming to couple his own name, as one in the direct line of apostolic succession, with that of a jockey! Surely his son was bereft of his senses.

From wrath the father had changed to heartsickness. Rather in anything else would he have his son engaged than in such a pursuit. He had in mind his own brother, the pride of his mother’s heart, the idol of the family, who, through that same love of horseflesh, had fallen so low that he was either an outcast or the occupant of an unmarked grave in the Western country.

His answer to the letter had been this:

My dear Son: I am sure that you have not reflected deeply on the course which you write me you are bent on pursuing. I cannot consider it as a serious resolve, but regard it rather as the result of sudden impulse on your part induced by the promptings of a man who would lead you away from all that is good and proper to something which is most sinful, degraded and pernicious.

If, after seeing your father in his priestly vestments, you can array yourself in the trappings of Satan—the jockey’s colors—you are not the son I have fondly imagined.

I will not pretend to coerce you in the matter. Yet I counsel you well to consider fully before you take the final step.

Of course if you persist in your wild determination, in future all communication between us must cease. I can advise you no further.

I am glad your dear mother is not alive to share in the pain which your communication has caused me.

Your Disappointed Father.

The bishop had hoped, rather than expected, that his son would turn from his resolve. He knew the breed! From the time when their ancestor, Hugh de Chalmers, had started forth to the Crusades, not one had ever retreated. And this same De Chalmers, knighted for some deed of valor on the field of battle, had chosen his coat of arms, which had remained to the house through the vicissitudes of generations. And this coat of arms consisted of field gules, horse argent, with the motto: “Ubique honor et equus” (“Wherever honor and his horse should lead him”). Always the horse had been associated with the Chalmers race, for good or bad, it seemed.

After the two letters there had been no others. The lives of father and son were as those of persons unknown to one another.

The little bishop, sadder than ever—more sanctified, the women of his flock said—went about his work with renewed vigor, if it were possible. They did not know of the derelict.

And the son? Never until this day had the father heard of him.

Try as hard as he had done, the bishop could not put from him the desire, the consuming, yearning wish, once more to look on the face of his only child, even if engaged in his ungodly pursuit. The bishop considered this would be his only chance; he was certain his heart was affected.

Suddenly he came to himself. He was here, but as yet he had seen no horses or jockeys. His son was apparently as far away from him as he had been when he first had become a professional rider. The bishop had supposed men and women, horses and jockeys, were all wallowing together in one slough.

Neither did Bishop Chalmers distinguish the face of an acquaintance. Vaguely he had supposed he would be seen by some who had heard him preach the night before, and who would express astonishment at meeting him there. Where was Miss Danvers?

If he had only known, he would have been aware that the people who would recognize him were in their boxes or grand-stand seats, or in the paddock, where society condescends to jostle elbows with stable boys, proving the truth of the adage enunciated by a true sage: “On the turf, and beneath it, all men are equal.” At least, the bishop was saved from explanation.

It was just after the third race he had arrived. Even now that he had come, he saw no prospect of accomplishing his design. He knew nothing of a paddock.

Looking about him helplessly, his black garments contrasting strangely with the bright costumes of the women, and the “horsy” garb of the male portion, his eyes rested on the figure of a man near him. He was a big, burly fellow, with a good-natured Irish face, the most noticeable feature of which was a huge red mustache. Certainly here was one who could help him, for the man’s attire was as typical of his calling as the bishop’s own. A glittering diamond pin in the shape of a horse’s head was in the cravat, a horseshoe watch charm rested on the double-breasted waistcoat of “loud” pattern.

Chalmers’ eyes caught those of the turf gambler as the latter lifted them, after making an apparently satisfactory calculation on the back of his program.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the bishop. “I—er—as you possibly may guess, I am not well versed in racing matters. Would you please enable me to understand a few things? I believe a jockey named Nowell——” he paused, interrogatively.

“Nowell is it, Blaisdell’s crack jock, ye are askin’ about, now, father?” inquired the man, with an expression of mild surprise. Evidently he mistook the bishop for a priest.

“Yes. Somebody said—I understood he was to ride in the Derby to-day,” continued the bishop, anxiously.

“I see ye ain’t used to racin’ at all, at all, now, father,” laughed the man, good-humoredly. “If ye were, sir, ye would have seen his name on the official jockey board over beyant. Do ye see it now, father? The numbers have been up so long they’ll be takin’ them down shortly. Over beyant, father.”

The bishop’s eyes followed the outstretched finger across the track to where he saw opposite “No. 1” on the board the name “Nowell” in large letters, with other numbers and names below it.

“Let me show ye, father,” said the man, taking the program and turning over the leaves rapidly.

“There ye are—foorth race, the Derby—No. 1, Ixion. That’s the horse Nowell rides. It’s No. 1 on the board, an’ I’m hopin’ he’ll be No. 1 at the finish.”

“Do you attend the races regularly?” asked the bishop, hesitatingly.

“That’s about the size av it, father,” acknowledged the other. “I’m what ye call a ‘regular.’ I don’t suppose annywan is known better about the tracks in this section than Miles Halloran. I play the ponies for a livin’. Mebbe ye’d be scoldin’ me, now, father?” he inquired, indulgently.

The question was ignored.

“Perhaps you can tell me about this jockey Nowell?” the bishop asked again. “Do you know him?”

“Little Nowell?” repeated the man. “I reckon not. Nobody knows him but Blaisdell and the horses. They say his own father don’t know him. But that don’t keep me from playin’ his mounts, father. I’ve been backin’ him ever since he started to ride. That’s why I’m all to the good. I don’t know him, but sure I can tell ye av him, an’ nothin’ but good. He’s as straight as a string.”

“Do you mean that he rides sitting straight up in the saddle?” inquired the bishop, misunderstanding.

“No, no, sir; not that. Sure, if all the boys were like him the bookies would go out of business, I’m thinkin’.”

“Bookies?” repeated the bishop. “Will you kindly elucidate what you mean by bookies?”

“Sure, the bookmakers.”

“Bookmakers—publishers, do I understand you to mean?” inquired the bishop, failing to see the connection between publishers and the race course.

“No, no, father; the layers what takes your long green, your dough, your yellow backs—the ones ye make your bet with, ye know.”

“Oh!” said the bishop.

“This little jock, Nowell, as I was sayin’,” continued Halloran, “is pounds better than any rider in the country.”

Once more the bishop failed to comprehend.

“Pounds? Do you mean in the nature of dollars and cents? Do I understand that his services are so much more valuable than those of any other rider?”

The ill-concealed pride of a father was manifest.

Unable to hide his merriment longer at the dense ignorance displayed by his interrogator, the race-track habituÉ gave vent to a series of chuckles, ending with spasmodic gasps which threatened to choke him. Finally he said:

“When we say that a horse is so many pounds better than another, we mean that he can pick up so much more weight than another one carries and win out. It’s made by lead carried in the saddle pad. Now, this Darby to-day——”

“Go on, I think I understand,” said the bishop, faintly. “About the Derby——”

“Now, in this here Darby—it’s a mile and a half race—all the horses are three-year-olds, and they carry the same weights.”

“Ah, yes, I see, I see. Then Nowell should win?”—tentatively.

Halloran meditated, frowning deeply.

“Ye seem to take uncommon interest in this jock, sir——” he began.

“You are quite right, Mr. Halloran,” said the bishop. “I—I knew him well some years ago. It was before he became a jockey. His—his mother and father I was well acquainted with.”

“Well, annywan that has been a friend av that lad is all right. I’m goin’ to put ye wise to somethin’. It’s only track gossip, but I believe there’s truth in it. It’s this”—he paused a moment before continuing, impressively: “Nowell will win if he gets through alive. It’s a mighty rough passage he’ll have this day. If he finishes with his neck safe, he’ll have the saints to thank at the end.”

The bishop’s face blanched. He could not understand.

“Is there a plot against his life? Can such a thing be allowed?” he demanded.

“Ye see, it’s this way—all the other jocks is jealous of Nowell, one of them in particular. That’s the Dago, Satanelli. ‘Little Satan,’ they call him, and he’s one of the devil’s own imps. He’s next to Nowell in winning mounts. He rides the second favorite, Hotspur, and it’s said Hotspur’s owner, Cantrell, has promised Satanelli two thousand dollars if he beats Ixion. He don’t have to win—come in ahead of Ixion, that’s all. More’n that, I hear each one of the other jocks has been slipped a hundred-dollar bill if he does all he can to beat Ixion. It’s easy money, you see. They’ll try to beat Nowell now if they have to put him over the fence to do it.”

“I am truly grateful to you for your information,” was the bishop’s reply. “What you say is a terrible state of affairs. Could you not find time to warn him—Nowell, I mean?”

“Why, he knows it, all right, father. Bless your soul, he’s wise as to what’s goin’ on.”

“And still he will go into this death trap set for him! Where can I find the officials?” implored the bishop. “Certainly they cannot be aware of the existing state of things. Mr. Halloran, won’t you help me?”

At the instant the clear notes of a bugle rang out. The bishop and his companion were separated. In some unaccountable manner the air appeared surcharged with electricity. For a second the noise and clamor of the grand stand, the babble of thousands of tongues, were succeeded by a strange stillness.

Again the noise began, but now it was more subdued—the vast crowd seemed to be under a spell. Wondering and bewildered, feeling that he had lost his mainstay, conscious that the crisis was near at hand, Bishop Chalmers looked about him.

He was brought to himself by a friendly hand on the shoulder, a rough but kindly voice in his ear:

“I slipped into the bettin’ ring to put down an extra wad, father. It looks now like everywan thinks Nowell will get through all right. All the big plungers is bettin’ on him, and they know what’s afoot. I thought maybe the little church might be needin’ some money now, and I put down a bet for ye,” he said, with a sly smile.

“Thank God!” was the bishop’s fervent ejaculation. But he was not referring to the wager.

“That was the call to the post, father,” said Halloran. “Come down here by the rail, so ye can get a good look at the boy. It’s the only chance ye’ll have. Right here, up against the rail, with me.”

Leaning over the rail, forgetful of all else, the bishop watched in the direction indicated by his companion for the horses and riders. Soon he saw them trooping out of the paddock gate on the track, in single file, a brave show. He thought he recognized the figure on the leading horse. A mist came before his eyes.

“That’s him—the wan on the big chestnut in front, No. 1, that’s Nowell. Ye’ll be havin’ a good look presently,” whispered the Irishman. “That’s him—the jock with the blue jacket, brown sash, brown cap.”

The bishop’s highly imaginative brain had preconceived this first glimpse of his son. He imagined the boy he had known would be transformed into a rough, profane creature, with heartless laughter and obscene jest to catch the applause of the crowd—young in years, old in crime, a tool of gamblers and blacklegs.

What the father saw, as with trembling fingers he clutched the rail near the judges’ stand, was a bright-faced young man, or, rather, a youth, with the father’s calm, deep blue eyes looking out from under the peak of his jockey cap straight ahead, fearless and confident.

The face had lost its boyish laughter—it wore an earnest, business-like expression. The father felt a thrill of—was it pride? His son was still a Chalmers, going to what might prove his death with unmoved countenance, just as his cavalier ancestor had gone generations before.

The horses—twelve of them—“a big Derby field,” some one said—passed by in parade, one after the other, on their way to the starting post, a half-mile distant around the circular track on which the Derby was to be run. There had been yells for Ixion and Nowell, handclapping and cheering, but the jockey had ridden on without noticing the favor with which he was received; past the grand stand, the field stand and around the turn.

At last the bishop was roused from his contemplation by the voice of Halloran. The plunger explained to him the manner of starting, the positions at the post. Most of it was meaningless to the bishop. He endeavored to understand. It had been his intention first to remain only until he had seen his son, and then go. The startling information given him had changed that.

Nervously expectant, imbued with the general feeling of suspense, Chalmers stood by the side of Halloran, the big Irishman peering through field glasses, shifting uneasily, and muttering to himself incoherently. The bishop watched silently, trying to pick out the blue and brown colors from the jumble of others, a prayer in his heart for one in peril of sudden death.

Would it never end? For minutes and minutes, each one of which added its load of misery to the watcher’s heart, the bishop saw the twisting and turning, the perverse actions of the racers as the starter tried to line them up behind the frail barrier. The wait was nerve racking—would it continue to torture the heart and brain for hours?

A something like a white ribbon flashed upward. For the infinitesimal part of a second—silence.

A roar as of relief from the vast multitude, a cry so concerted that the thousands might have rehearsed it for weeks, sharp, short, distinct and crescendo: “They’re off!”

The tension was broken.

A simultaneous darting forward of the released level line of racers.

A flirt downward of a glaringly yellow flag.

Already the rumble of hoofbeats was heard, approaching closer each fraction of a second. Now the flying racers had reached a position opposite the grand stand. The leaders were sweeping by the bishop and his companion with their marvelous, frictionless, space-devouring strides. A sharp exclamation came from Halloran, a jubilant expression: “I told ye Nowell would get off well. He’s second now, an’ takin’ it easy.”

Even the inexperienced eye of the bishop had picked out instantaneously, well to the fore, the blue and brown of his jockey son.

They had swept past the paddock; they were making the first turn to the back stretch. The grand-stand spectators had risen in their excitement, the occupants of the packed lawn were tip-toe with expectation, eyes strained to lose no move of the Derby contenders well advanced in the struggle for the great prize.

Halloran gave an inarticulate cry—a burst of dismay and sympathy came from the backers of the favorite.

“Bumped into, by——!” was the Irishman’s sharp exclamation, coupled with a fierce oath. One of the flying racers, urged on to terrific pace by its rider, with no thought of saving for the heartbreaking finish, had struck Ixion on the quarter with his shoulder. For a moment the favorite was seen to falter and fall back; the next, under the superb handling of his rider, he had regained his stride and recovered the ground lost to the leaders.

The bishop had merely guessed something had happened. He was brought to full realization by Halloran saying, impersonally:

“They’re up to their devil’s tricks early in the game. They don’t care for foulin’ in this Derby.”

Some man alongside answered, with a sneer:

“I guess they’ll fix Blaisdell’s kid-glove jock to-day. I see his finish. The other boys will see to him, all right—his uppishness.”

Halloran, letting fall the glasses from his face, grabbed the strap, turned on the speaker like a tiger, and said in a tone of deepest menace:

“Ye know me, Cantrell. Another word the like av that, an’ I’ll brain ye right in the presence of his riverence, here. Don’t forget that little jock is a friend av him an’ av me.”

The man was silent.

“Watch yerself, Nowell,” the big fellow cautioned, as if the jockey was in earshot. “It’s all right in the straight. Watch yourself on the last turn for home; it’s there they’ll try to do the dirty work.”

Down the back stretch they raced in a compact bunch, the blue and brown on the rail, the black horse of Satanelli, like an avenging demon, hanging on to Ixion’s quarter, the rest close behind, ready to aid in the devilish work cut out for them by the chief conspirator.

In reality it took but a few seconds, though it seemed minutes, until the far turn was reached. Here the blue and brown, the all yellow of Satanelli, the violets and greens and pinks and blacks and reds and all the other colors of the jockeys, became merged in a maze to the bishop. Whether the positions had changed, how his son was faring, he could only guess by the disjointed utterances of the man beside him. Halloran, on tiptoe, breathing heavily, and with head turning slowly, followed the movements of the racers. The bishop had a sensation of faintness steal over him. For a space he feared he would lose consciousness.

“Oh! Mother of mercies!”—from Halloran. “They pinched him off at the far turn! Bumped into again! He’ll never win now. If the stewards don’t take action now——”

A heavy foot was raised and stamped the ground savagely.

His breath coming in gasps, the bishop watched the expression of the other to try and read the fate of his son. To him the race itself was as a closed book.

Around the far turn they had swept, and the bishop, looking at the other’s face, listening intently, caught the words:

“They’ve got Ixion pocketed. He’ll never get through. If he tries, they’ll put him over the fence, sure. Ye young devils, ye’ve done your work well.”

Now they had reached the turn for home. They had rounded it. A black horse, with the all yellow, was in the lead, a jockey, white and black checks, was alongside, half a length away, both at the whip. Two lengths back, in the middle of the ruck, seemingly hopelessly beaten, apparently shut off with no chance to get through, was the blue and brown.

Between Ixion and the rail two horses nearly on even terms with him; in front Satanelli on Hotspur, and Blashford, the second choice, carrying the black and white “magpie” colors; on Ixion’s whip side a beautiful brown filly, with gray and magenta, the filly so tired she was ready to lean against Ixion’s heaving flank.

So with those in the “first flight,” the racers came down the stretch in a whirlwind finish, the vast crowd, in a frenzy of excitement, shouting frantically, hysterically, the names of the two leaders, Hotspur and Blashford, for it seemed certain one or the other was sure to win. Halloran was silent.

Suddenly the brown filly halted perceptibly in her stride. Now she had fallen back! The racer in front of Ixion, slightly to his right, running gamely and true under the now added incentive of pricking steel in side, had drawn slightly away from under the nose of Ixion, and was pressing hard the two leaders, with evident intention of capturing a portion of the purse. An open gap of daylight showed between the colt in front of Ixion and the completely fagged filly. It was but a chance, but it meant freedom. It was the one thing remaining for Nowell and Ixion.

Rising in his saddle, crouching forward, whip lifted and falling with one lash only, Nowell reined Ixion sharply to the right.

A horse less royally bred than Ixion, an animal with more temper and less courage than this thoroughbred, after the buffeting he had received during the race, would have sulked, or responded at best with feeble effort. Not so with the Blaisdell thoroughbred, under the skillful guidance of a premier jockey.

Ixion checked his stride, almost landing on his haunches, and, with a plunge which threatened to throw his rider over his head, had found an opening, on the extreme outside, it is true, but an unobstructed path to the finish. With tremendous leaps and bounds the horse was recovering his lost ground.

Another second and Ixion’s clean-cut head, outstretched until the upper lip was lifted, baring the grinning teeth, was seen with that of Blashford, fallen back three-quarters of a length behind Hotspur, as yet showing no diminution of his wonderful speed under the cruel rawhide and steel of Satanelli.

Scarcely before that jockey realized it—probably the first intimation he had of his rival’s nearness was the crowd yelling Ixion’s name—the racer had drawn up to Hotspur, changing places with Blashford, now dropping further behind. Head and head Ixion and Hotspur hung together for a couple of strides.

As a man transformed from a paralyzing grief to sudden great unexpected joy, Halloran was dancing up and down like a madman, pounding the rail with a huge fist.

Ixion and Hotspur were nose and nose. Once more, only, nearing the finish line, did Nowell strike his horse with the whip, and the racer, as if understanding the need, lengthened his stride, passing Hotspur by the small space of a man’s hand at the finish, and winning by so much.

At the instant, with a shrill yell of rage, all the ferocity of his Latin nature roused by defeat when victory seemed assured, Satanelli jerked his right rein, so that his horse “bored” against Ixion, at the same time hitting viciously at that racer’s head with his whip.

His mighty stride as yet unchecked, Ixion swerved, stumbled, fell to his knees and rolled to one side, on the jockey.

Snorting wildly, the colt regained his feet and rushed on as the rest of the field, contesting for third place, rushed up to the finish.

Two of the leading horses jumped clean over the prostrate figure of the jockey in blue and brown; the flying hoofs of another struck it and rolled the body of the little rider to one side. The others, sufficiently far behind, avoided it altogether.

Yells of exultation at the winning of the favorite were checked. They were changed to groans of sympathizing men, screams of terror-stricken, white-faced, fainting women.

When the bishop came to himself he was in the center of the track, kneeling down by his unconscious son, holding the head of the unfortunate in his hands. Uniformed men were by him.

Through a little gate opening from the judges’ stand hurried a large, distinguished-looking man, with gray mustache.

He had the unmistakable air of authority as he stood over the jockey’s form, his uncased field glasses, with the case itself, dangling by his side. The others moved away, all but the bishop. The elderly man, to whom the others gave way, would have lifted the boy in his arms, but the bishop would not release his hold.

“Pardon me, sir; let me have him,” said the gentleman, with something of austerity, as if hinting that the presence of a clergyman was more superfluous than necessary. “What he needs now most of all is prompt medical attention. He is my jockey.”

“And he is my son, sir; my only child,” was the response of the kneeling, dark-garbed figure. He permitted the large man to lift the boy in his arms.

As the ambulance drove sharply on the course, the large man, still clasping the jockey in his arms, looked hard at the anguished face.

It was a brief but all-comprehensive glance. The next instant he had lifted a foot on the step, and with the assistance of the surgeon had deposited the insensible boy on the stretcher inside.

“Drive direct to Fordham,” he commanded. “I will follow immediately.”

Only then did he turn to the bishop.

“I am William T. Blaisdell. You say the boy is your son? You are——?”

His eyes roved over the other’s ministerial dress.

“I am Bishop Chalmers, sir. This young man is my son, my only child,” he repeated, quietly.

“How is it that his name is Nowell? He told me that was his right one?” said the owner, doubtingly.

“It is his own middle name, and his mother’s maiden one,” was the low reply.

“Come with me, bishop,” said Blaisdell, his face softening. “He is a son of whom any father might be proud. Let us hope his injuries are not serious. My automobile is outside here, and we will go direct to the hospital.”

During the swift ride to the hospital, in the wake of the ambulance, Bishop Chalmers, as to a father confessor, unbosomed himself to the quiet, self-contained man beside him. When he had finished the recital, concluding with the remark that he had misjudged his son, and the two men had looked into one another’s eyes, the father saw that Blaisdell’s were filled with tears.

“You have misjudged him sadly,” was Blaisdell’s reply. “No one in any capacity was ever truer to his trust than your son, bishop.

“None ever lived a cleaner life, I know. He had offers innumerable to ride for men who would have paid him extra thousands for retainers. The methods of some on the turf are questionable. As in any other business, it depends altogether on the man. Your son preferred to ride only for me, because he knew that always my horses were ridden to win.”

He was silent a little.

“Although your son received from me a retaining fee of fifteen thousand dollars a year, he seemed to spend but little money,” he continued. “Each year, at his request, I deposited my personal check, payable to him, for the whole amount with my bankers, Relyea & Farnum. As he seemed to spend little, and, like myself, never ventured a wager, it must have accumulated to a good round sum. I always supposed hitherto that the boy had others dependent on him.”

Cringing in his seat, positively cringing, at this latest revelation, Bishop Chalmers heard.

To think how he had mistaken his son! Relyea & Farnum, bankers? Their names were familiar. Now the bishop knew who furnished the seed for his harvest. On this point alone could he not reveal the truth to Blaisdell.

“It was remarkable how he could handle horseflesh,” continued the latter, in a matter-of-fact tone. “No one else could ride Ixion. I verily believe he would have pined away in any other profession. He was not perfectly happy unless he was about horses. Honest? Why, bishop, the whole racing public be——” He checked the word, smiling to himself. He had started to say “bets on him.” “The whole racing public believes in him,” he declared, gravely.

“‘In whatsoever calling,’” murmured the bishop.

The patient had been taken into the operating room, was the report that awaited Blaisdell and the bishop on their arrival at the hospital. Nothing was known regarding his condition. Blaisdell whispered to the obsequious interne who met them:

“I am ex-Secretary Blaisdell. Your patient is the son of Bishop Chalmers here, and in my employ. You will greatly oblige me by sending for my surgeon, Dr. Abercrombie. Leave no stone unturned to save the boy. And, by the way, doctor——”

The departing physician returned to Blaisdell’s side.

“If—er—when he regains consciousness—you might tell him that his father, Bishop Chalmers, is waiting to see him. The news might prove of benefit.”

In the hallway, too excited and interested to remain quiet in the reception room, the bishop and ex-Secretary Blaisdell paced up and down. A few minutes they had passed thus, conversing together gravely, when the click of small, dainty heels, the rustle of a woman’s skirts, were heard on the bare floor.

A tall girl, with light hair; a lovely, highbred creature, gowned in the most approved of summer “creations,” the perfume of whose presence nullified the odor of anÆsthetics and antiseptics—a young lady whose features were strikingly like those of Blaisdell—the light of whose blue eyes was dimmed by weeping, threw herself, sobbing, into his arms.

“How did you get here, Bettina?” Blaisdell asked her, with something of reproof in his tone.

“I saw it—the—oh, it was too terrible!” she cried. “I asked where they had taken him, and followed directly. They said you were here.”

Her eyes rested on the bishop, standing near.

“Is it—is it so bad as that, father?” she cried, sobbing anew. “Oh, don’t tell me he is——”

She could not bring herself to say the word. “This is Bishop Chalmers, daughter,” was Blaisdell’s reply.

“Bishop Chalmers!” gasped the girl, with wide-open eyes. “Why, bishop, I heard you preach on ‘Charity’ last night.”

“On ‘Charity,’ which I so badly lacked—that which I thought I possessed, but which I had so little of for my own son,” said the bishop. “The boy whom you knew simply as Nowell was my son, Miss Blaisdell—Lionel Nowell Chalmers. His father”—he cleared his throat—“was so uncharitable as to deny him the privilege of calling him father.”

“To think that he was the son of a bishop, and now it’s too late! Oh, why would not he tell us!” she cried, reproachfully.

She had burst into a fresh fit of sobbing. Blaisdell, one arm thrown affectionately around the waist of the weeping girl, placed the other on the bishop’s shoulder.

“Your son and my daughter were in love with one another,” he said, simply. “I have no son, and the boy was much at my house. I trusted him fully in everything. I saw the growing attachment between the two. I was certain that he came of good people, but, as a father, and on account of my social position, I had to be sure. I asked him, as he loved Bettina and she him, to tell me who his father was.

“He would not,” continued Blaisdell, after a pause. “I felt sure he had some excellent motive for keeping his secret. I did not press him further, and there the matter rested.”

A pent-up sob came from the soul of the bishop. “So much it would have meant to him,” he said, and added, softly, as if to himself: “As the father, in his priestly vestments, would not recognize the son in his Satan’s trappings, so the son could not acknowledge the father. Oh, Lord, spare him to us yet a while.”

The door opened and a nurse appeared on the threshold. She looked curiously at the group.

“Jockey Nowell is conscious and asking for his father, the bishop,” she stated, with unintentional emphasis on the last word, and then added, in a coldly professional tone:

“He will recover, the physicians say, but his injuries will probably prevent him from riding again—at least not for a very long while.”

Blaisdell drew a sharp breath. His face was troubled.

“That means my retirement from the turf,” he said, with a sigh. “I have lost the one jockey I could trust.”

“And I have gained—a son,” breathed the bishop, starting forward.

Pausing, he took the sobbing girl by the hand.

“You will see him later, daughter,” he whispered.

His face radiant with a smile it had not known for years, the little bishop followed the nurse down the passage.

A door opened and closed noiselessly behind them.