itched his tail, and loafed along, a dozen lengths behind
his field.

In the straight he made up a little of the lost ground, but he was
securely out of the money at the finish. Fate still sat and threw the
dice as he had for many moons--a deuce for John Porter, and a six for
Philip Crane.

VIII

It was late autumn; the legitimate racing season had closed. In August
Porter had taken his horses back to Ringwood for the winter.

When a man strives against Fate, when realization laughs mockingly
at his expectations, there comes to him a time when he longs for a
breathing spell, when he knows that he must rest, and wait until the
wheel of life, slow-turning, has passed a little through the groove
of his existence. John Porter had been beaten down at every point.
Disastrous years come to all men, whether they race horses or point the
truthful way, and this year had been but a series of disappointments to
the master of Ringwood. After Lucretia's win in the Eclipse, Porter
did not land another race. Lucretia caught cold and went off. He tried
Lauzanne twice again, but the Chestnut seemed thoroughly soured. Now
he was back at Ringwood, a dark cloud of indebtedness hanging over
the beautiful place, and prospect of relief very shadowy. If Lucretia
wintered well and grew big and strong she might extricate him from
his difficulties by winning one or two of the big races the following
summer. About any of the other horses there was not even this much of
promise.

Thoroughly distrusting Lauzanne, embittered by his cowardice, Porter
had given him away--but to Allis. Strangely enough, the girl had taken
a strong liking to the son of Lazzarone; it may have been because of
the feeling that she was indirectly responsible for his presence
at Ringwood. Allis Porter's perceptions had been developed to an
extraordinary degree. All her life she had lived surrounded by
thoroughbreds, and her sensitive nature went out to them, in their
courage and loyalty, in a manner quite beyond possibility in a
practical, routine-following horseman. To her they were almost human;
the play of their minds was as attractive and interesting as the
development of their muscles was to a trainer. When the stable had been
taken back to Ringwood, she had asked for Lauzanne as a riding horse.

"I'm going to give him away," her father had replied; "I can't sell
him--nobody would buy a brute with such a reputation." This word brought
to Porter's mind his