The man's face wore a sullen, discontented look, and no wonder, for he
had, with misplaced confidence, wagered many dollars on a horse that was
even then prancing gaily in many yards behind the winner.
"Do you know what race that was?" Mortimer repeated, thinking the silent
one had not heard him.
"Why don't you look at your race card?" retorted the jaundiced loser,
transporting himself and his troubles to the haven of liquid
consolation.
His answer, curt as it was, gave Mortimer an inspiration. He looked
about and saw many men consulting small paper pamphlets; they were like
people in an art gallery, catalogue in hand.
By chance, Mortimer observed a young man selling these race catalogues,
as he innocently named them. He procured one, and the seller in answer
to a question told him it was the third race he had just seen, and the
next would be the Brooklyn Derby.
There it was, all set forth in the programme he had just purchased.
Seven horses to start, all with names unfamiliar except The Dutchman and
Lauzanne. He had almost given up looking for Alan; it seemed so
hopeless. At any rate he had tried his best to save the boy's honor;
told deliberate lies to do it. Now it was pretty much in the hands of
fate.
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