Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1902-07-26

no debasing effects If man couldn't race
squarely-run to win every time-he had
better quit the game, Porter had always as
serted. He raced honestly and bet openly,
without cant and without hypocrisy; just
as fnancfer might have traded in stocks
IN Wall street, or farmer might plant his
crops and trust to the future and fair
weather to yield him harvest in return.
So much of the racing life was on honor
so much of the working out of it was In the
open, where purple-cloVered fields gave rest
and health and strength, that the home at
moSphere was impregnate with moral truth
and courage and frankness, in it's influence
on the girls development
Every twist of her sinewy figure bore
mute testimony to this; every glance from
her wondrous eyes was an eloquent sub
stantiating argument in favor of the life
she affected.
John Porter looked down at the small.
rather dark, upturned face, and a half
amused smile of content came to his lips
Did you see LuCretia?' he asked Isn't
she beauty? Hasn't Dixon got her in the
pink of condition.
Il saw nothing else, father" She beck
oned to him with her eyes, tipped her head
forward and whispered, Those people be-
hind US have backed Lausanne. | think
they're racing folks
The father smiled as an uncultured wo-
man voice from one row back Jared on
his ear Allis noticed the smile and its
provocation, and said, speaking hastily, IL
don't mean like you, father
Line us, ne corrected.
We'll, perhaps; they're more like betting
or training people, though" She put her
hand on his arm warningly, as a high
pitched, falsetto penetrated the drone of
their half-whispered words, saying, II tell
you, Dick knows all about this Porter
mare, Lucretia."
But 1 like her. a baritone voice an
swered. She looks rattIin' fly
You'll dine off zweiback and by your
lonely. Ned, If you play horses on their
looks
or women, either" the baritone cut in.
You're fair judge, Ned But Dick told
me to go the limit on Lausanne and to
leave the filly alone
"On form, Lucretia ought to win" the
man persisted; an there's never anythin'
dom with Porter, I've heard"
Perhaps not the unpleasant feminine
voice sneered mockingly, with an ll-condi-
toned drawl on the perhaps" but he
doesn't ride his own mare, does hep
John Porter started. Again that distaste-
full expression, fraught with distrust and
insinuation. There was a strong evil odor
| of stephanotis waited to his nostrils as the
speaker shook her fan with impatient de-
| cision. The perfume affected him disagree
ably; 1t was like the exhalation of some
noisome drug; quite in keeping with the
covert insinuation of her words that Dick,
as she called HINT must be Dick Lang
don, the trainer of Lausanne, Porter unused
had given her advice based on a knowl-
edge quite irrespective of the gallopine
powers of the two horses.
Did you hear that, father?" AIis whis-
pIed:
He nodded his head. 49,.
What does it all mean?'
1t means, girl, he said slowly, that all
the trouble and pains 1 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 FLY
on bottle, and watching over her temper,
! that it should not be ruined by brutal saw
ages of stable boys whose one idea of a
| horse is that he must be dubbed into sub
missiOn-that all the care taken In her
| training, and the money spent for her keep
| and entries, goes for nothing in this race,
| II Jockey Mckay is the rascal / fear he is -
You think some one has got at him,
| Dad?"
| Her father nodded again.
Il wish I'd been q boy, so that / could
/ have ridden Lucretia for you today" Allis
| exclaimed, with sudden emphasis.
| Il almost wish you had, little woman;
| you'd have ridden straight anyway-there
| never was a crooked one of our blood"
| Il 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 lit
| tie woman the father went on, musingly
| as he watched the horses lining up for the
] start. Men think IL a boy is a feather
I weight, and tough as a Bowery ioafer, he s
| sure to be success in the saddle. That
what beats me-a boy of that sort wouldn't
| be trusted to carry letter with ten dollars
| in it, and on the back of good horse he's
| plotting thousands. Unless a Jockey has
| he's almost certain TO turn out a black