As the horses had flashed past the post, and, after a brief wait for
decision, Lauzanne's number had gone up, his backers had hastened
eagerly to the money mart, and lined up in waiting rows behind the
bookmakers' stands. There they waited, fighting their impatient souls
into submission, for the brief wait would end in the acquiring of gold.
Why did not the stentorian-voiced crier send through the ring the joyful
cry of "All right!" The minutes went by, and the delay became an age.
A whisper vibrated the throng, as a breeze stirs slender branches, that
the winner had been disqualified--that there had been an objection.
First one dropped out of line; then another; one by one, until all
stood, an army of expectant speculators, waiting for the verdict that
had its birthplace up in that tiny square building, the Stewards' Stand.

"It's over the pulling of Lucretia," a man said, simply to relieve his
strained feelings.

"It was the most barefaced job I ever saw," declared another; "it's even
betting the stable gets ruled off." He had backed Porter's mare, and
was vindictive.

"Not on your life," sneered a Tout, wolfishly; "a big owner always gets
off. The jock'll get it in the neck if they've been caught."

"Why don't they pay?" whined the fourth. "What's the pulling of the
mare got to do with it? The best horse won." He was a backer of
Lauzanne.

"Bet yer life the bookies won't part till the numbers of the placed
horses an' riders are up on that board again. They've run them down,