It was the day of the great race. The Morris Park grand-stand was reeling full. The quarter stretch was crowded with Democrats and Republicans and Mugwumps, who, laying aside political hatreds for a day, had come to see the races. The horses were backing and plunging in the grasp of rubbers and stable minions, while the gay jockeys, with their mites of saddles on their left arms, were being weighed in.

Suddenly, a cry of terror rent the air. Otero, a headstrong beauty, had leaped upon the neck of Paddy the Pig, a horse rubber, and borne him to the earth. Paddy the Pig's neck was severely wrenched, so the crowd said. As the accident occurred, the victim fainted.

“Is there a doctor present?” shouted one of the race judges, appealing to the grand-stand.

T. Jefferson Bender arose from where he sat, walked over seventeen men and women, and leaped upon the stretch.

“I am here,” observed T. Jefferson Bender, while his eye lighted and his nostrils expanded with the ardour of a great resolve.

T. Jefferson Bender bent above Paddy the Pig and felt his pulse.

“He lives!” muttered T. Jefferson Bender.

Then he called for whiskey.

At the magical words, Paddy the Pig languidly opened his eyes, while a flush dimly painted his cheek.

“Doc, you have saved my life!” said Paddy the Pig.

“I have,” said T. Jefferson Bender, willing to be impressive. “I have saved your life.”

“Doc,” said Paddy the Pig in a weak, fluttering voice, “I am only a horse rubber, but I will make you rich. Play Skylight to win, Doc; Skylight! It's a tip from the tomb!”

“It's a tip from the tomb!” said T. Jefferson Bender reverently, “what are the odds?”

“It's a 20-to-1 shot, Doc. Play it. You will thus be paid for what you've done for me.”