aving 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."

"What was it about?" the girl asked.

"Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses," the boy answered,
evasively. "It's Crandal, the butcher."

II

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."

The bell clanged imperiously at the Judges' Stand. Porter pulled out his
watch and looked at it.

"That's saddling," he remarked, laconically; "I must go and have a bit
on the mare, and then take a look at her before she goes out."

As Porter went down the steps his companion leaned over the rail and
crooked his fingers at a thin-faced man with a blond mustache who had
been keeping a corner of his eye on the box.

"What are they making favorite, Lewis?" queried Danby, as the thin-faced
man stood beside him.

"Lucretia."

"What's her price?"

"Two to one."

"What's second favorite?"

"Lauzanne--five to two."

"Porter tells me Lucretia is good business,"