nows he's got to beat Dutchy, an' he's lyin' handy by. When you see
Dutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat."

Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top of
the steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intense
interest. Would Lauzanne do his best for the girl--or would he sulk?
He saw the terrific pace that the Indian had set the others. Would it
discourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace could
not last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end to
end of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his rider
have the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of the
inevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike set
his teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as he
strained in sympathy with the girl's quietude.

How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upset
all clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray,
White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other three
were dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was still
running as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and an
eighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved up
into third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged in
the three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a half
thrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, and
surely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on the
withers, just a blue blur on the dark gold of the Chestnut.

"Bot' t'umbs! but they're a pair," muttered the Irishman; "be me soul, I
t'ink they'll win."

At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth and
The Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around the
corner as one horse.

"Gad, she's shut off!" he muttered. It was a living wall, and through
little chinks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close up
where raced Lauzanne.

"Poor gurl!" he gasped, "they've got her in a pocket. Damn them b'ys.
Why did she hug the rail--she's fair t'rowed away the last chance."

Halfway up the steps stood Langdon, and his coarse, evil face took on a
look of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horses
in front.

"Pocketed, by God! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'in
Westley an' the others