CHAPTER XXII.—HOW PRINCE RUPERT LOST.

And now I’ll tell you how I once threw stones at Hartford and thereby gained queer money to carry me to the bedside of my mother at her death.

My father, you should know, was a lawyer of eminence and wide practice at the New York bar. His income was magnificent; yet—thriftless and well living—he spent it with both hands. My mother, who took as little concern for the future as himself, aided pleasantly in scattering the dollars as fast as they were earned.

With no original estate on either side, and not a shilling saved, it was to be expected that my father’s death should leave us wanting a penny. I was twenty-two when the blow fell; he died stricken of an apoplexy, his full habit and want of physical exercise marking him to that malady as a certain prey.

I well recall how this death came upon us as a bolt from the blue. And while his partner stood over our affairs like a brother, when the debts were paid there remained no more than would manage an annuity for my mother of some six hundred dollars. With that she retreated to Westchester and lived the little balance of her years with a maiden sister who owned a starved farm, all chequered of stone fences, in that region of breath-taking hills.

It stood my misfortune that I was bred as the son of a wealthy man. Columbia was my school and the generosity of my father gilded those college days with an allowance of five thousand a year. I became proficient—like many another hare-brain—in everything save books, and was a notable guard on the University Eleven and pulled the bow oar in the University Eight. When I came from college the year before my father’s death I could write myself adept of a score of sciences, each physical, not one of which might serve to bring a splinter of return—not one, indeed, that did not demand the possession of largest wealth in its pursuit. I was poor in that I did not have a dollar when brought to face the world; I was doubly poor with a training that had taught me to spend thousands. Therefore, during the eighteen years to succeed my father’s going, was I tossed on the waves of existence like so much wreckage; and that I am not still so thrown about is the offspring of happy exigency rather than a condition due to wisdom of my own.

My ship of money did not come in until after I’d encountered my fortieth year. For those eighteen years next prior, if truth must out, I’d picked up intermittent small money following the races. Turf interest of that day settled about such speedy ones as Goldsmith Maid, Lucy, Judge Fullerton and American Girl, while Budd Doble, Dan Mace and Jack Splan were more often in the papers than was the President. I followed the races, I say; sometimes I was flush of money, more often I was poor; but one way or another I clung to the skirts of the circuits and managed to live.

Now, since age has come to my head and gold to my fingers, and I’ve had time and the cooled blood wherewith to think, I’ve laid my ill courses of those eighteen evil years to the doors of what vile ideals of life are taught in circles of our very rich. What is true now, was true then. Among our “best people”—if “best” be the word where “worst” might better fit the case—who is held up to youthful emulation? Is it the great lawyer, or writer, or preacher, or merchant, or man of medicine? Is it he of any trade or calling who stands usefully and profitably at the head of his fellows? Never; such gentry of decent effort and clean dollars to flow therefrom are not mentioned; or if they be, it is not for compliment and often with disdain.

And who has honor in the social conventions of our American aristocrats? It is young A, who drives an automobile some eighty miles an hour; or young B, who sails a single-sticker until her canvas is blown from the bolt ropes; or young C, who rides like an Arab at polo; or young D, who drives farthest at golf; or young E, who is the headlong first in a paper chase. These be the ideals; these the promontories to steer by. Is it marvel then when a youth raised of those “best circles” falls out of his nest of money that he lies sprawling, unable to honestly aid himself? Is it strange that he afterward lives drunken and precariously and seldom in walks asking industry and hard work? His training has been to spend money, while his contempt was reserved for those who labored its honorable accumulation. Such wrong-taught creatures, bereft of bank accounts, are left to adopt the races, the gambling tables, or the wine trade; and with all my black wealth of experience, I sit unable to determine which is basest and most loathly of the three.

During those eighteen roving, race-course years I saw my mother but seldom; and I never exposed to her my methods of life. I told her that I “traveled;” and she, good, innocent girl! gained from the phrase a cloudy notion that I went the trusted ambassador to various courts of trade of some great manufactory. I protected her from the truth to the end, and she died brightly confident that her son made a brilliant figure in the world.

While on my ignoble wanderings I kept myself in touch with one whom I might trust, and who, dwelling near my mother, saw her day by day. He was ever in possession of my whereabouts. Her health was a bit perilous from heart troubles, and I, as much as I might, maintained arrangements to warn me should she turn seriously ill.

At first I looked hourly for such notice; but as month after month went by and no bad tidings—nothing save word at intervals that she was passing her quiet, uneventful days in comfort, and as each occasional visit made to Westchester confirmed such news, my apprehension became dulled and dormant. It was a surprise then, and pierced me hideously, when I opened the message that told how her days were down to hours and she lay dying.

The telegram reached me in Hartford. When I took it from the messenger’s hand I was so poor I could not give him a dime for finding me; and as he had been to some detective pains in the business, he left with an ugly face as one cheated of appreciation. I could not help it; there dwelt not so much as one cheap copper in my pocket. Also, my clothes were none of the best; for I’d been in ill fortune, and months of bankruptcy had dealt unkindly with my wardrobe. But there should be no such word as fail; I must find the money to go to her—find it even though it arrive on the tides of robbery.

Luck came to me. Within the minute to follow the summons, and while the yellow message still fluttered between my fingers, I was hailed from across the street. The hail came from a certain coarse gentleman who seemed born to horse-races as to an heritage and was, withal, one of the few who reaped a harvest from them. This fortunate one was known to the guild as Sure-thing Pete.

It was fairly early of the morning, eight o’clock, and Surething Pete in the wake of his several morning drinks—he was a celebrated sot—was having his boots cleaned. It is a curious thing that half-drunken folk are prone to this improvement. That is why a boot-black’s chair is found so frequently just outside the portals of a rum shop. The prospect of a seat allures your drunkard fresh from his latest drink; he may sit at secure ease and please his rum-contented fancy with a review of the passing crowds; also, the Italian digging and brushing about his soles gives an impression that he is subject of concern to some one and this nurses a sense of importance and comes as vague tickle to his vanity.

Surething Pete, as related, was under the hands of a boot-black when I approached. He was much older than I and regarded me as a boy.

“Broke, eh?” said Surething Pete. His eye, though bleary, was keen. Then he tendered a quarter. “Take this and go and eat. I’ll wait for you here. Come back in fifteen minutes and I’ll put you in line to make some money. I’d give you more, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t return.”

Make money! I bolted two eggs and a cup of coffee and was back in ten minutes. Surething’s second shoe was receiving its last polish. He paid the artist, and then turning led me to a rear room of the nearby ginmill.

“This is it,” said Surething. His voice was rum-husky but he made himself clear. “There’s the special race between Prince Rupert and Creole Belle. You know about that?”

Of course I knew. These cracks had been especially matched against each other. It would be a great contest; the odds were five to three on Prince Rupert; thousands were being wagered; the fraternity had talked of nothing else for three weeks. Of course I knew!

“Well,” went on Surething, “I’ve been put wrong, understand! I’ve got my bundle on Creole Belle and stand to win a fortune if Prince Rupert is beaten. I supposed that I’d got his driver fixed. I paid this crook a thousand cold and gave him tickets on Creole Belle which stand him to win five thousand more to throw the race. But now, with the race to be called at two o’clock, I get it straight he’s out to double-cross me. He’ll drive Rupert to win; an’ if he does I’m a gone fawnskin. But I’ve thought of another trick.”

Then suddenly: “I’ll tell you what you do; get into this wagon outside and come with me.”

With the last word, Surething again headed for the street. We took a carriage that stood at the door. In thirty minutes we were on the Charter ‘Oak track. At this early hour, we had the course to ourselves. Surething walked up the homestretch until we arrived at a point midway between the half mile post and the entrance to the stretch.

“See that tree?” said Surething, and he pointed to a huge buttonwood—a native—that stood perhaps twenty feet inside the rail. “Come over and take a look at it.”

The great buttonwood was hollow; or rather a half had been torn away by some storm. What remained, however, was growing green and strong and stood in such fashion towards the course that it offered a perfect hiding place. By lying close within the hollow one was screened from any who might drive along.

“This is the proposition,” continued Surething, when I had taken in the convenient buttonwood and its advantages. “This Rupert can beat the Belle if he’s driven. But he’s as nervous as a girl. If a fly should light on him he’d go ten feet in the air—understand? Here now is what I want of you. I’ll tell you what you’re to do; then I’ll tell you what you’re to get. I want you to plant yourself behind this tree—better come here as early as the noon hour. The track ’ll be clear and no one’ll see you go under cover, understand! As I say, I want you to plant yourself in the sheltering hollow of this buttonwood. You ought to have three rocks—say as big as a guinea’s egg—three stones, d’ye see, ’cause the race is heats, best three in five. You must lay dead so no one’ll get on. As Rupert and the Belle sweep ’round the curve for the stretch, you want to let ’em get a trifle past you. Then you’re to step out and nail Rupert—he’ll have the pole without a doubt—and nail Rupert, I say, with a rock. That’ll settle him; he’ll be up in the air like a swallow-bird. It’ll give the Belle the heat.” Having gotten thus far, Surething fell into a mighty fit of coughing; his face congested and his eyes rolled. For a moment I feared that apoplexy—my father’s death—might take him in the midst of his hopeful enterprise and deprive me of this chance of riches. I was not a little relieved therefore when he somewhat recovered and went on: “That trick’s as safe as seven-up,” continued Surething. “You’ll be alone up here, as everybody else will be down about the finish. The drivers, driving like mad, won’t see you—won’t see anything but their horses’ ears. You must get Rupert—get him three times—every time he comes’round—understand?”

I understood.

“Right you are,” concluded Surething. “And to make it worth your while, here are tickets on the Belle that call for five hundred dollars if she wins. And here’s a dollar also for a drink and another feed to steady your wrists for the stonethrowing.”

It will seem strange and may even attract resentment that I, a college graduate and come of good folk, should accept such commission from a felon like Surething Pete. All I say is that I did accept it; was glad to get it; and for two hours before the great contest between Prince Rupert and Creole Belle was called, I lay ensconced in my buttonwood ambush, armed of three stones like David without the sling, ready to play my part towards the acquirement of those promised hundreds. And with that, my thoughts were on my mother. The money would count handsomely to procure me proper clothes and take me home. To me the proposed bombardment of the nervous Rupert appeared an opportunity heaven-sent when my need was most.

For fear of discovery and woe to follow, I put my tickets in the hands of one who, while as poor as I, could yet be trusted. He was, if the Belle won, to cash them; and should I be observed at my sleight of hand work and made to fly, he would meet me in a near-by village with the proceeds.

At prompt two o’clock the race was called. There were bustling crowds of spectators; but none came near my hiding place, as Surething Pete had foreseen. The horses got off with the second trial. They trotted as steadily as clockwork. As the pair rounded the second curve they were coming like the wind; drivers leaning far forward in their sulkies, eagle of glance, steady of rein, soothing with encouraging words, and “sending them,” as the phrase is, for every inch. It was a splendid race and splendidly driven, with Rupert on the pole and a half length to the good. They flashed by my post like twin meteors.

As they passed I stepped free of my buttonwood; and then, as unerringly as one might send a bullet—for I had not been long enough from school to forget how to throw—my first pebble, full two ounces, caught the hurrying Rupert in mid-rib.

Mighty were the results. Prince Rupert leaped into the air—stumbled—came almost to a halt—then into the air a second time—and following that, went galloping and pitching down the course, his driver sawing and whipping in distracted alternation. Meanwhile, Creole Belle slipped away like a spirit in harness and finished a wide winner. I took in results from my buttonwood. There was no untoward excitement about the grandstand or among the judges. Good; I was not suspected!

There ensued a long wait; planted close to my tree I wearied with the aching length of it. Then Rupert and the Belle were on the track again. The gong sounded; I heard the word “Go!” even in my faraway hiding; the second heat was on. It was patterned of the first; the two took the curve and flew for the head of the stretch as they did before; Rupert on the pole and leading with half a length. I repeated the former success. The stone struck poor Rupert squarely. He shot straight toward the skies and all but fell in the sulky when he came down. It was near to ending matters; for Rupert regained his feet in scantiest time to get inside the distance flag before the Belle streamed under the wire.

Creole Belle! two straight heats! What a row and a roar went up about the pools! What hedging was done! From five to three on Rupert the odds shifted to seven to two on Creole Belle. I could hear the riot and interpret it. I clung closely to the protecting buttonwood; there was still a last act before the play was done.

It was the third heat. The pace, comparatively, was neither hot nor hard; the previous exertions of both Rupert and the Belle had worn away the wire edge and abated their appetites for any utmost speed. Relatively, however, conditions were equal and each as tired as the other; and as Rupert was the quicker in the get-away and never failed of the pole in the first quarter, the two as they neared me offered the old picture of Rupert on the rail and leading by half his length.

Had I owned a better chance of observation, I might have noted as Prince Rupert drew near the buttonwood that his mind was not at ease. He remembered those two biting flints; they were lessons not lost on him. As I stepped from concealment to hurl my last stone, it is to be believed that Rupert—his alarmed eyes roving for lions in his path—glimpsed me. Certain it is that as the missile flew from my hand, Rupert swerved across the track, the hub of his sulky narrowly missing the shoulder of the mare.

The sudden shift confused my markmanship, and instead of Rupert, the stone smote the driver on the ear and all but swept him from his seat. It did the work, however; whether from the stone, the whip, or that state of general perturbation wherein his fell experiences had left his nerves, Rupert went fairly to pieces. Before he was on his feet again and squared away, the Belle had won.

Peeping from my hiding place I could tell that my adroit interference in the late contest was becoming the subject of public concern. Rupert’s driver, still sitting in his sulky, was holding high his whip in professional invocation of the judges’ eyes. And that ill-used horseman was talking; at intervals he pointed with the utmost feeling towards my butonwood. Nor was his oratory without power; he had not discoursed long when amid an abundance of shouts and oaths and brandished canes, one thousand gentlemen of the turf were under head in my direction.

It was interesting, but I did not stay in contemplation of the spectacle; I out and bolted. I crossed the track and ran straight for the end fence. This latter barrier looked somewhat high; I made no essay to climb, but, picking a broadest board, launched myself against it, shoulder on. The board fell and I was through the gap and in an open field.

But why waste time with that hustling hue and cry? It was futile for all its indignant energy; I promise you, I made good my distance. Young, strung like a harp, with a third of a mile start and able to speed like a deer, I ran the hunt out of sight in the first ten minutes. It was all earnestness, that flight of mine. I fled through three villages and a puny little river that fell across my path. I welcomed the river, for I knew it would cool the quest.

Of a verity! I got my money, and my stone throwing was not to be in vain. True, the driver and the owner of Rupert both protested, but the track statutes were inexorable. The judges could take no cognizance of that cannonading from the buttonwood and gave the race—three straight heats—to Creole Belle. Surething Pete won his thousands; and as for me, my friend and I encountered according to our tryst and he brought me my money safe. Within fifteen hours from that time when I dealt disaster to Rupert from the sheltering buttonwood, clothed and in respectable tears, I was kneeling by my mother’s side and taking what sorrowful joy I might for having arrived while she was yet equal to the bestowal of her blessing.





It was to be our last evening about the great stone fireplace; the last of our stories would be told. The roads were now broken, and though a now-and-then upset was more than likely to enliven one’s goings about, sleighs and sleds as schemes of conveyance were pronounced to be among things possible. As we drew our chairs about the blaze, the jangle of an occasional leash of bells showed how some brave spirit was even then abroad.

Under these inspiring conditions, the Sour Gentleman and the Red Nosed Gentleman declared their purpose of on the morrow pressing for the railway station eighteen miles away. To this end they had already chartered a sleigh, and the word was out that it be at the Inn door by ten of the morning clock.

For myself, nothing was driving me of business or concern, and I was in no haste to leave; and the Old Cattleman and his ward, Sioux Sam, were also of a mind to abide where they were for a farther day or two at least. But the going of the Sour Gentleman and the Red Nosed Gentleman would destroy our circle, wherefore we were driven to regard this as “our last evening,” and to crown it honorably the Jolly Doctor brewed a giant bowl of what he described as punch. The others, both by voice and the loyalty wherewith they applied themselves to its disappearance, avowed its excellencies, and on that point Sioux Sam and I were content to receive their words.

The Red Nosed Gentleman—who had put aside his burgundy in compliment to the Jolly Doctor and his punch, and seemed sensibly exhilarated by this change of beverage—was the first to give the company a story. It was of his younger, green-cloth days, and the title by which he distinguished it was “When I Ran the Shotgun.”