The first race was but a race, that was all. Horses galloped, but did
they not gallop other days? It was not the Brooklyn. And also the
second was but another race. How slow, and of what little interest were
the horses! Verily, neither was it the Brooklyn, and it was the
Brooklyn forty thousand pairs of eyes had come to see.
Down in the betting ring men of strong voices bellowed words of money
odds, and full-muscled shoulders pushed and carried heads about that
were intent on financial businesses. But what of that? It was not the
Brooklyn, it was gambling.
Out in the paddock a small brown mare of gentle aspect, with big soft
eyes, full of a dreamy memory of fresh-shooting grass, walked with easy
stride an elliptical circle. Her fetlocks fair kissed the short grass
in an unstable manner, as though the joints were all too supple. Inside
of the circle stood Allis Porter and a man square of jaw and square of
shoulder, that was Andy Dixon. Presently to them came Mike Gaynor.
"We're gittin' next it now, Miss Allis; we'll soon know all about it."
"We're all ready, Mike," said Dixon, with square solemnity. "When
they've beat the little mare they'll be catchin' the judge's eye."
"There's nothing left now, Mike, but just a hope for a little luck,"
added the girl.
Pages:
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262