As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tall shadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, and he heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the strong hands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by the throat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executive friend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention.
“It's Mortimer!” he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cut the night air with sharp decision.
Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, weaving in and out. There were voices of expostulation and strong words of anger; but the new serious business that had materialized had most effectually put a stop to reflections upon the innocent girl who had so unwittingly offended.
“It's George Mortimer--he's in our bank,” Alan confided to his sister, as they moved away. “He's all right--he's strong as a horse; and I bet Crandal'll have a kink in his neck to-morrow, where George pinched him.”
“Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses,” the boy answered, evasively. “It's Crandal, the butcher.”
It was the May meeting at Morris Park, and Morris Park is the most beautiful race course in all America.
John Porter, walking up the steps of the Grand Stand, heard some one call him by name. Turning his head, he saw it was James Danby, an owner, sitting in his private box. Porter turned into the box, and taking the chair the other pushed toward him, sat down.
“What about Lucretia?” asked Danby, with the air of an established friendship which permitted the asking of such questions.
“She's ready to the minute,” replied Porter.
“Can she get the five furlongs?” queried Danby. “She's by Assassin, and some of them were quitters.”
“She'll quit if she falls dead,” replied the other man, quietly. “I've worked her good enough to win, and I'm backing her.”
“That'll do for me,” declared Danby. “To tell you the truth, John, I like the little mare myself; but I hear that Langdon, who trained Lauzanne, expects to win.”
“The mare'll be there, or thereabouts,” asserted her owner; “I never knew a Lazzarone yet much good as a two-year-old. They're sulky brutes, like the old horse; and if Lucretia's beat, it won't be Lauzanne that'll turn the trick.”