AN old man, ragged, but with an air of dignity, quickly glanced at his stop watch as a small figure, crouched over a shining black neck, shot by. With a thunder of hoofs the black horse whirled past and fought for her head down the stretch. She would win the following Saturday—she must! If she didn’t then she too would have to go and leave the ruined old gentleman, who looked so feeble leaning over the white rail which enclosed the mile track. After much coaxing the black colt came mincing up to her old master.

The small colored boy, as black as his mount, was bubbling over with enthusiasm. “Dat dehby, Suh, is going to be won by ma Dixie,” patting the curved neck of the horse.

The old gentleman looked up. “Mah boy, you must remembah that Dixie will have otheah good hawses to beat. Vixen is the favohite and very fast, although Ah know mah little black friend heah will do heh best to honah the purple and white,” glancing proudly at the headband of the black marvel. “Next Satahday will decide it all.”

A shadow fell across the colt. Looking up, the gentleman, known as Colonel Fairfax, saw a man dressed in a checkered suit and orange socks. On a tie to match was a monstrous, well polished diamond, which sparkled wickedly in the sun. The man stood staring at the stop-watch. “Ah beg yoh pahdon, Suh, but theh anything Ah could do foah you?”

The man, hearing the question, looked up, flushing. “Youh horse is a Derby entry?”

Colonel Fairfax eyed the horse reflectively and answered, “It all depends on her condition, and only time can answeh that.” The man hurried away, leaving the old gentleman looking after him, a deep frown on his face.

“Washington, Ah am a bit doubtful about this new-uh-acquaintance,” he addressed the exercise boy.

Each day, no matter how early Dixie was given her exercise, the stranger was to be seen loitering in the distance or walking briskly beside the track—seemingly deep in thought. His presence seemed to trouble the Colonel, who watched his colt anxiously.

At last, the final workout. Colonel Fairfax and the unwelcome stranger leaned over the rail, intently watching the black horse, which appeared to have wings. The stranger, who had been seen talking to the owner of Vixen, the favorite, annoyed the old gentleman; he was suspicious of this flashily dressed man and did not conceal his feelings.

Sundown, Friday, found the stable at Churchill Downs buzzing with excitement. The favorite’s stall was surrounded by interested old racing men, who loved the thoroughbred and his sport, while a few individuals in gaily checkered suits crowded about, listening to the many “hunches” for business reasons only. An old man sat before Stall No. 7. Glancing up, he noticed two men peering in at Dixie. One was the man who had seemed so much interested in the mare’s trial gallops. Through the half-open door of the box stall could be seen a horse in faded purple and white blankets. After a hurried conversation the two men passed on to the favorite’s stall, where they smiled at the jockey, looked in, and walked on.

Long after the one-thirty special night train had whistled at the Downs crossing, a dark figure could be seen sliding along the stall doors—“Ten—Nine—; Eight—” Then it came to halt before Stall No. 7, and slipped through the door. It felt in the dark for the blanketed horse’s neck. The horse jumped as a dagger-like needle was thrust into its neck. The colored boy, in a drugged sleep at the door of the stall, stirred in his dreams, but was still again. The door opened quietly, and the figure slipped out, leaving the horse in No. 7 leaning drunkenly against the side wall. A shaft of moonlight fell across the intruder’s face, revealing the same man who had attended all of Dixie’s trial gallops. Little did this unscrupulous person realize that the black mare was spending the night in an old deserted barn near the race track, guarded by an old gentleman whose mouth was twisted into a whimsical smile, while a “guaranteed-to-be-gentle” livery horse was leading a life of luxury that evening in Stall No. 7, Churchill Downs.

Derby day at Churchill Downs! Kentucky was doing homage to the thoroughbred. As the band played “Dixie,” the Derby entries filed through the paddock onto the field. Proudly leading the string of the country’s best two year olds, was the song’s namesake, a true daughter of the South. With arching neck and prancing feet, Dixie, the pride of an old man’s heart, took her place at the barrier. Her jockey looked up as he passed an aristocratic old gentleman, dressed in a faded coat which reminded one of “befoah de Wah” days and whose hat remained off while the horses passed.

The barrier was up, and the roar shook the grandstand. “They’re off!!” The favorite, Vixen, shot ahead and seemed to be making a runaway race. Cheer after cheer rent the air. An old man clasped his program a little tighter and breathed a prayer. Around the turn came Vixen, but not alone. Crouched to the ground, a small black horse crept up to the flying tail of the favorite. Down the stretch the two thundered, fighting for supremacy. “Foah Kentucky, Dixie, and the honah of the purple and white!” As if she heard this plea from her master, Dixie bent lower. Then, her black nose thrust ahead, more than a length in advance of Vixen, she flashed under the wire, bringing “honah” to the purple and white.

Nancy Stevenson, ’26.