e galloping powers of the
two horses.

"Did you hear that, father?" Allis whispered.

He nodded his head.

"What does it all mean?"

"It means, girl," he said, slowly, "that all the trouble and pains I
have taken over Lucretia since she was foaled, two years ago, and her
dam, the old mare, Maid of Rome, died, even to raising the little filly
on a bottle, and watching over her temper that it should not be ruined
by brutal savages of stable-boys, whose one idea of a horse is that
he must be clubbed into submission--that all the care taken in her
training, and the money spent for her keep and entries goes for nothing
in this race, if Jockey McKay is the rascal I fear he is."

"You think some one has got at him, Dad?"

Her father nodded again.

"I wish I'd been a boy, so that I could have ridden Lucretia for you
to-day," Allis exclaimed with sudden emphasis.

"I almost wish you had, Little Woman; you'd have ridden straight
anyway--there never was a crooked one of our blood."

"I don't see why a jockey or anybody else should be dishonest--I'm sure
it must take too much valuable time to cover up crooked ways."

"Yes, you'd have made a great jock, Little Woman;" the father went on,
musingly, as he watched the horses lining up for the start. "Men think
if a boy is a featherweight, and tough as a Bowery loafer, he's sure
to be a success in the saddle. That's what beats me--a boy of that sort
wouldn't be trusted to carry a letter with ten dollars in it, and on the
back of a good horse he's, piloting thousands. Unless a jockey has the
instincts of a gentleman, naturally, he's almost certain to turn out a
blackguard sooner or later, and throw down his owner. He'll have more
temptations in a week to violate his trust than a bank clerk would have
in a lifetime."

"Is that why you put Alan in the bank, father?"

Porter went on as though he had not heard the daughter's query. "To make
a first-class jock, a boy must have nerves of steel, the courage of a
bulldog, the self-controlling honesty of a monk. You've got all these
right enough, Allis, only you're a girl, don't you see--just a good
little woman," and he patted her hand affectionately.

"They're off!" exclaimed the baritone.

"Not this trip," objected the falsetto.

"The spurs--the young fiend!" fiercely ejaculated John Porter.

"What is it, father?"

"The boy on Lucretia is jabbing her with the spurs, and she's cutting
up."

"That's the fourth false start