on't
be many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider."

They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like an
impalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed face
shed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normal
condition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up when
the Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do with
that, he thought. "What th' 'ell's th, difference," he said in fierce,
imprecating anger; "de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jes
come t'rough de openin' an' won-dey can't disqualify him."

"What does it mean?" asked Mortimer; "what's wrong?"

"De push's tryin' to steal de race; de favorite's beat, an' it's win,
tie, or wrangle wit' 'em. If dey take de race away from Larcen we don't
get de goods, see? Our t'ou's up de spout. Dere he goes, dere he goes;
look at de knocker," as Langdon came down from the Stewards.

Mortimer's heart sank. An exultation such as he had never experienced in
his life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickled
in a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He had
felt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at having
overcome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter from
dishonor. His heart had warmed to the tattered outcast at his side,
who had been the means to this glorious end. It had been all over,
accomplished; now it was again thrust back into the scales, where it
dangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered in
the balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother.

He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front of
them was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his face
looking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertaining
to racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousand
dollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to do
with that, else why was Alan mixed up in it.

As the boy came through the little gate Mortimer accosted him. "Hello,
Alan!" he exclaimed, very gently, "what's the trouble?"

"Just a silly mistake," answered Porter, a weak laugh following his
words; "Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne."

"Is dat it?" interposed Old Bill; "an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-de
stiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, looking
as tough he'd been fired fer s