ended by the banker virtually owning every horse that
raced in the trainer's name. In addition, two or three horses ran in
Philip Crane's own name. If there had been any distinctive project in
the scheme of creation that gave Dick Langdon to the world, it probably
was that he might serve as the useful tool of a subtle thinker. Now
it did seem that Langdon had come into his own--that he had found his
predestined master.

John Porter had not been successful; ill fortune had set in, and there
was always something going wrong. Horses would break down, or get beaten
by accident--there was always something. The steady financial drain had
progressed even to an encumbrance on Ringwood.

Ringwood was simply a training farm, located close to an old disused
race course, for there had been no racing in Brookfield for years.

* * * * * *

Inadvertently the Reverend Mr. Dolman had intensified the strained
relationship that existed between the good people who frowned upon all
racing endeavor and those who saw but little sinfulness in John Porter's
way of life.

The church was in debt--everything in Brookfield was, except the town
pump. The pastor was a nervous, zealous worker, and it occurred to
him that a concert might lighten the financial load. The idea was not
alarmingly original, and the carrying out of it was on conventional
lines: local volunteer talent, and a strong appeal to the people of
Brookfield for their patronage.

The concert in the little old clap-boarded church, it's sides faded
and blistered by many seasons of tempest and scorching sun, was an
unqualified success up to the fifth number. Nothing could have been more
successful, or even evoked greater applause, than the fourth effort,
"Anchored," as rendered by the village pride in the matter of baritone
singing; even De Reszke never experienced a more genuine triumph. The
applause gradually fell away, and programmes were consulted preparatory
to a correct readiness for the fifth offering. The programmes confided
that "The Death of Crusader," by Miss Allis Porter, was the next item.

In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severe
quaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor,
and whispered, "It's that racin' gal of John Porter's."

The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: "I'm right glad
she's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about them
Crus