Chapter 3

Once more they all disappeared behind the hill, and once more the leaders came out, one ahead of the others, then two together, then two more, running along the inside of the fence toward the last jumps, where they would strike the clear track and come around the turn into the home stretch. The other horses were trailing behind the five leaders when they went over the hill. Now, as they came out again, one of the second batch was ahead of all the others and was making up lost ground after the leaders. Suddenly a cry arose: “The yellow! The orange! It 's the countryman!”

“Impossible! It is, and he is overhauling 'em!”

“If he lives over the Liverpool, he 'll get a place,” said one of the gentlemen in the club box.

“But he can't do it. He must be dead,” said Mr. Newby. “There goes one now. The red-jacket 's down.”

“I 'm out,” said Mr. Galloper. “He 's up all right.”

“He 'll get over,” said the girl. “Oh, I can't look! Tell me when he 's safe.” She buried her face in her hands.

“There he goes. Oh!”

“Oh, is he down!” she panted.

“Jove! No--he 's over clear and clean, running like a streak,” said the gentleman, with warm admiration. “He 's safe now. Only two more hurdles. It 's all clear. That boy is riding him, too.”

The girl sprang to her feet.

“Give me your glasses. It is--it is! He 's safe!” she cried. She turned to Newby who stood next to her. “Ask quarter and I 'll let you off.”

“He 'll never be able to stand the track. It 's fetlock-deep.”

But at that moment the horses turned into the track, and the real race began. Newby's prophecy went to the winds. As was seen, the leaders were riding against each other. They had dropped out of account all the other horses. They had not even seen the brown. The first thing they knew was the shout from the crowd ahead of them, blown down to them hoarsely as the big brown horse wheeled into the stretch behind them. He was ahead of the other horses and was making hotly after the four horses in the lead. He was running now with neck outstretched; but he was running, and he was surely closing up the gap. The blood of generations of four-mile winners was flaming in his veins. It was even possible that he might get a place. The crowd began to be excited. They packed against the fences, straining their necks.

How he was running! One by one he picked them up.

“He 's past the fourth horse, and is up with the third!”

The crowd began to shout, to yell, to scream. The countryman, not content with a place, was bent on winning the race. He was gaining, too.

The two leaders, being well separated, were easing up, Hurricane, the bay, in front, the black, the favorite, next, with the third well to the rear. The trainers were down at the fence, screaming and waving their arms.

They saw the danger that the riders had forgot.

“Come on! Come on!” they shouted.

Old Robin was away down the track, waving like mad. Suddenly the rider of the second horse saw his error. The rush of a horse closing up on him caught his ear. He looked around to see a big brown horse with a white blaze in the forehead, that he had not seen since the start, right at his quarter, about to slip between him and the fence. He had just time to draw in to the fence, and for a moment there was danger of the two horses coming down together.

At the sight old Robin gave a cry.

“Look at him! Runnin' my hoss in de fence! Cut him down! Cut him down!”

But the brown's rider pulled his horse around, came by on the outside, and drew up to the flank of the first horse. He was gaining so fast that the crowd burst into shouts, some cheering on the leader, some the great brown which had made such a race.

The boxes were a babel. Everyone was on his feet.

“The yellow 's gaining!”

“No; the blue 's safe.”

“Orange may get it,” said Colonel Ashland. “He 's the best horse, and well ridden.”

He was up to the bay's flank. Whip and spur were going as the leader saw his danger.

Old Robin was like a madman.

“Come on! Come on!” he shouted. “Give him de whip--cut him in two--lift him! Look at him--my hoss! Come on, son! Oh, ef my ol' master was jest heah!”

A great roar ran along the fences and over the paddock and stands as the two horses shot in together.

“Oh, he has won, he has won!” cried the girl in the big hat, springing up on a chair in ecstasy.

“No; it 's the blue by a neck,” said her father. “I congratulate you, Snowden. But that 's a great horse. It 's well that it was not a furlong farther.”

“I think so,” said the owner of the winner, hurrying away.

“They have cheated him. I am sure he won,” asserted the young lady.

They laughed at her enthusiasm.

“Newby,” said one of the gentlemen, “you 'd better get Miss Catherine to pick your horses for you.” Newby winced.

“Oh, it 's easy!” said the girl, nonchalantly, “Bone and muscle--and a green country boy--with a pedigree.”

IV

As Johnston was leading his horse away, the gentleman who had fallen at the water-jump came up to him.

“I want to thank you,” he said. “I saw you pull him around.”

“I was afraid I 'd strike you,” said the other, simply.

Just then two gentlemen pushed through the crowd. One was Mr. Newby.

“Are you the owner of this horse!” he asked the young man.

“Yes, sir.” He spoke with pride.

“Dat he is de owner,” put in old Robin, who had the bridle, “an' he owns a good hoss! He got de ambition.”

“Want to sell him?”

“Um-um-hm--d' n' know. I came on to sell him.”

“Don't you sell him. Don't you never sell him,” urged the old trainer. “Keep him, an' le' me handle him for you. You 'll git mo' 'n second money next time.”

“I 'll give you a thousand dollars for him. What do you say?”

Old Robin gave an exclamation.

“A thousand dollars! For dis hoss!”

The gentleman's friend broke in:

“Oh, come, Newby, don't rob the boy. He 'll give you two thousand,” he laughed.

They were examining the horse as he walked along under his blanket.

“Two thousand?” The boy was hesitating. It was a great sum to him.

“No; but I 'll split the difference,” said Mr. Newby: “I 'll give you fifteen hundred for him if he is as good as I think him when I look him over. What 's his name?”

“Jefferson Davis.”

“Oh, the devil! I 'll change his name pretty quickly.”

“No, you won't,” said the boy.

“Won't I? I 'll show you when I get him,” he muttered. “Well, what do you say?”

“Will you promise not to change his name?”

The other laughed.

“Not much! When I buy him he 's my horse.”

“He 'll never be your horse.”

“What?”

“He 's not for sale.” He turned away.

“Oh, nonsense! Here; wait----”

“I would not sell him to you, sir, at any price. Good-morning.” He moved on.

“You 've lost a good horse,” said his friend.

“Oh, I 'll get him yet!”

“I don't think so,” said Colonel Ashland, who, with his daughter on his arm, had come up to congratulate the young rider.

“I wish I might have won for you,” said the young man to Miss Ashland. His cap was in his hand and he made the same quaint bow that he had made before.

“I think you did win; at least, you ought to have had it. My father says he is a great horse.”

At the words the color mounted to his sunburned cheeks. “Thank you,” he said, and looked suddenly deep into her eyes.

She put out her hand to pet the horse, and he turned and rested his head against her. She gave an exclamation of delight.

“Oh! father, look.”

“We know our friends,” said young Johnston.

“Dat we does. She 's de on'ies one as bet on him,” asserted old Robin. “Dat young lady knows a good hoss.”

“Who is that boy?” asked Mr. Newby, as the horse was led away.

“A green country boy with a pedigree,” said a low voice at his shoulder.

“Where does he come from!”

“Virginia,” said Colonel Ashland. “And his name is Theodoric Johnston. It 's bred in the bone.”

*****

Next morning as young Johnston rode his horse out of the stable gate, old Robin walked at his side. Just in front of the pawn-shop Robin pulled out his watch and examined it carefully.

“I don' mind but one thing,” he said. “I did n't have dis yisterday to hol' de time on him. But nem mind: wait tell nex' season.”