The crowd that assembled at the course that afternoon was enough to fill the hearts of the management with joy, if a management has hearts. When the first race was called, the stands and paddocks were already filled, and the road was crowded with vehicles as far as the eye could see. The club and club-paddock filled later, as is the way with fashionable folk; but when the second race was called, these, too, were packed, and they looked, with the gay dresses of the throng that filled every foot of space, like great banks of flowers, while the noise that floated ont sounded like the hum of a vast swarm of bees.

The great race of the day was the fourth on the programme, and all minds were fastened on it, the interest in the other races being merely perfunctory.

Before the big event the paddock was thronged with those who came to see the horses. A curious crowd they were—stout men, heavy-jawed and coarse-lipped; thin men, sharp-eyed and fox-faced; small, keen men, evil-looking boys, and round-faced, jovial-looking fellows—all stamped with horse. Among these mingled refined-looking gentlemen and fashionably dressed ladies.

Even under their blankets the horses were a fine-looking lot.

Among the crowd was a group of which the center was a young and very pretty girl. A simple white gown became her youth and freshness, and a large white hat with a long white ostrich-feather curled over the brim, shading her piquant face, added to her charm. A few pink roses fastened in her dress were the only color about her, except the roses in her cheeks. Most of those with her were men considerably older than herself. They appeared, rather, friends of her father, Colonel Ashland, a distinguished-looking gentleman, known to turfmen as the owner of one of the best stock-farms in the country. He loved horses, but never talked of them. The young lady had just left school, and had never seen a steeplechase before, and her eagerness kept her companions in continual merriment. They were bantering her to bet, which she had as yet refused to do. All were deeply interested in the race. Indeed, two of the gentlemen with Colonel Ashland, Colonel Snowden and Mr. Galloper, had horses entered in the steeplechase; and as they examined the horses and made observations on them apt as a proverb, many of the bystanders strained their ears to catch their words, in hopes of getting a few last points on which to lay their bets.

Hurricane, a medium-sized bay, was next to the favorite; but Swallow, a big-boned sorrel, was on his form going up in the betting, and Mr. Galloper was in fine spirits. He was bantering his friend for odds that his big chestnut with the cherry colors would not beat the favorite.

Presently in the round came, led by an elderly negro, whose face wore a look portentous of mystery, a big horse covered with a sheet. A set of clean legs appeared below the sheet, and the head set on the long, muscular neck was fine enough for a model.

“What horse is that?” asked one of the gentlemen. It was the same question that many were asking as the horse walked with a long, easy swing, as quiet, yet as much at home, as if he were in his own stable-yard.

“Hello! that must be the new entry—'J. D.,'” said Colonel Snowden, pushing forward to get a good look at him.

“Whose horse is this, Robin?” enquired Colonel Ashland.

The old fellow touched his hat.

“Dis is Mr. Johnstone hoss, suh.” He spoke with pride.

“Not a very distinguished name,” laughed one of the others, Mr. Newby, a youngish man dressed in the latest race-course style. He wore bits and stirrups as pins and fobs, owned a few horses, and “talked horse” continually.

Old Robin sniffed disdainfully.

“Oh, it may be,” said the young girl, turning her eyes on him with a little flash. She saw that the old darkey had caught the words.

“What Mr. Johnston is it, uncle?” she asked, kindly, with a step forward.

“Mr. Theod'ric Johnston, madam.” He spoke with pride.

“What! Colonel Theodoric Johnston? Is he living still?” asked Colonel Ashland. “I thought he—How is he?”

“Oh, nor, suh! He 's dead. He died about three years ago. Dis gent'man is the gran'son—one o' my young masters. I was the fust pusson ever put him on a hoss.”

“Can he ride?”

“Kin he ride! You wait an' see him,” laughed the old man. “He ought to be able to ride! Ken a bud fly? Heah he now.”

He turned as the young owner, brown and tanned, and hardly more than a boy, came up through the crowd. He, like his horse, had been carefully groomed, and through his sun tan he bore a look of distinction. He was dressed for the race, but wore a coat over his faded silk jacket. As he turned and found Robin talking to a lady, his cap came off instinctively. The men looked at him scrutinizingly.

“Are you Colonel Theodoric Johnston's grandson?” enquired Colonel Snowden. “He used to have some fine horses.”

“Yes, sir.” His eye stole to the horse that was just beside him, and the color mounted to his cheek.

“And he was a fine man. The turf lost one of its best ornaments when he retired.” Colonel Ashland was the speaker.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” His cap was in his hand, his words and manner were respectful, but when he spoke he looked the other in the eyes, and his eyes, though shy, were clear and calm.

“We were just admiring your horse,” said the young lady, graciously.

He turned and looked at her with the color flashing up in his tanned cheeks.

“Thank you. I am glad if he meets with your approval.” He ended his formal little speech with a quaint, slow bow. “I wish he were worthier of it.”

“Oh, I am sure he is,” she said, politely. “At least, you have our good wishes.” Her eye fell on one of her companions. “Has n't he, Mr. Newby?”

The latter only looked at the younger man and grunted.

“Well, at least you have mine,” she said, with an air of bravado.

“Thank you. I 'll try to deserve them.”

“Dat young lady knows a hoss,” asserted old Robin, triumphantly. “Jes look at him, dyah. What bone an' muscle!” He raised the sheet and waved his dusky hand towards his charge.

“Yes, that 's what I say. Such bone and muscle!” she repeated, with pretended gravity.

“Especially the bone!” observed Mr. Newby, in a low tone.

“I shall back him,” she said. She held in her hand a rose which had broken off its stem. She took it and stuck it in a loop in the sheet.

Just then the first bell sounded, and the hostlers began to get the horses ready to appear before the judges, while the riders went off to weigh in, and the crowd began to stream back to the stands. As the group turned away, the young owner took the rose from the loop and, with a shy look around, hid it in the breast of his jacket. His eye followed the white hat till it passed out of the paddock gate.

“Do you really think that horse can win?” asked Mr. Newby of the young lady, as they strolled along. “Because I tell you he can't. I thought you were a sport. Why, look at his hocks! He won't get over the Liverpool.”

“I shall back him,” said she. “What is the Liverpool?”

“Here, I 'll tell you what I 'll do,” said Mr. Newby. “I 'll bet you two to one he does n't win the race.” He winked at the others.

“Very well. I don't approve of betting, but I 'll do it this time just to punish you.”

“Now I 'll bet you two to one he does n't come in second—that boy won't get him over the water-jump.”

“Very well—no, I don't want to take odds. I 'll bet you even. I must be a sport.”

The other protested, while the rest of the party looked on with amusement.

“Oh, well, if you insist,” said Mr. Newby. “What shall it be?”

“A box of the best——”

“Of the best cigars!”

“No; I don't smoke. Candy.”

“Oh, you expect to win!”

“Of course. Who ever saw such bone and muscle!”

They reached their places in the box, smiling and bowing to their acquaintances about them.

As soon as they were settled, the young lady picked up a paper lying by, and began to search diligently for the name of her horse.

“Ah, here it is!” She began to read. It was a column of forecasts. “Tell me, please, what does '100 to 1' mean!”

“That the horse is selling at that.”

“Selling? What does that meant”

There was an explosion of laughter from those about her. They explained.

“Oh, what cheats men are!” she exclaimed with conviction.

“Come, I 'll let you off if you ask quarter,” laughed Mr. Newby. “No horse can jump with knees as big as that.”

“Never! I 'll back him to the end,” she declared. “Oh, there he is now! There is his yellow jacket,” she added, as the buzz grew louder about them, and glasses were levelled at the horses as they filed by spirited and springy on their way to the starting-point some furlongs down the course. No one else appeared to be looking at the big brown. But his rider was scanning the boxes till his eye rested on a big hat with a white feather; then he sat up very straight.

Two of the gentlemen came up from the paddock. Colonel Snowden had the horse that was next to the favorite. They were now talking over the chances.

“Well, what are you going to do? How do you stand?” his friends asked.

“A good chance to win. I don't know what that new horse can do, of course; but I should not think he could beat Hurricane.”

“Of course he cannot,” said Mr. Newby. “Ridden by a green country boy!”

“He has some good points and has a fine pedigree.”

Mr. Newby raised his eyebrows. “So has his rider; but pedigrees don't count in rides.”

“I never could understand why blood should count in horses and not in men,” said Miss Ashland, placidly. “Oh, I hope he 'll win!” she exclaimed, turning her eager face and glancing back at the gentlemen over her shoulder.

“Well, I like that!” laughed Colonel Snowden. “With all that money on the race! I thought you were backing Hurricane?”

“Oh, but he hasn't anybody to back him,” she protested. “No; I sha 'nt back Hurricane. I shall back him.”

“Which? The horse or the rider?”

“The horse—no, both!” she declared, firmly. “And oh, papa,” she exclaimed, glancing back at him over her shoulder, “they say he wants to win to send his sister to school and to go to college himself.”

“Well, I must say you seem to have learned a good deal about him for the time you had.”

She nodded brightly. “That 's what the old colored man told a friend of mine.”

“If he does n't go to college till he wins with that horse,” said Mr. Newby, “he is likely to find his education abbreviated.”

“I shall back him, anyhow.” She settled herself in her seat.

“Here, I 'll tell you what I will do. I will bet you he don't get a place,” said Mr. Newby.

“How much? What is a 'place'?” she asked.

It was explained to her.

“How much—a hundred to one!”

“No; not that!”

“You 're learning,” laughed her friends.

“There! they 're off. Here they come!” buzzed the crowd, as the flag at last fell, and they came up the field, a dozen in all, two in the lead, then a half-dozen together in a bunch, and two or three behind, one in the rear of all. Old Robin's heart dropped as the cry went up: “The countryman 's left. It 's yellow-jacket!” It was too far off for him to see clearly, but the laughter about him was enough.

“That boy don't know how to ride. What did they put him in for?” they said.

A minute later, however, the tone changed. The country boy was coming up, and was holding his horse in, too. The riders were settling themselves and spreading out, getting their horses in hand for the long gallop.

In fact, the old trainer's last piece of advice to his young pupil was worthy of a Delphic track,

“Don' let 'em lef you; but don't let 'em wind you. Don't git so far behind 't folks 'll think you 's ridin' in de next race; but save him for de last half-mile. You 'll have plenty o' room den to let him out, an' de track 's mighty heavy. Watch Hurricane an' Fightin' Creek. Keep nigh 'em, but save him, an' look out for de Liverpool.”

It was on this advice that the young rider was acting, and though he was in the rear at the start he did not mind it. He saw that two or three riders were trying to set the pace to kill off the other horses, and he held his horse in, picking his ground.

So they passed two or three fences, the horses in the same order, and came toward the water-jump in front of the stands. It was a temptation to rush for it, for the safest chance was in front, and the eyes of thousands were on them. Some of the riders did rush, and the leaders got over it well; but in the bunch two horses struck and went down, one going over and turning a complete somersault on the other side, the other from a false take-off falling back on the near side, with his rider almost under him, immediately in front of young Johnston's horse. Whether it was the fall of the two horses with the splash of the water in the ditch beyond, or whether it was the sudden twitch that Johnston gave his bridle to turn the brown as the horse and rider rolled almost immediately before him, or whether it was all these taken together, the brown horse swerved and refused turning entirely back, while the rest of the field swept on. The other horses and riders had scrambled to their feet, and the mind of the crowd was relieved. They broke into a great shout of laughter as the rider of the brown deliberately rode the horse back.

“You are going the wrong way!”

“He 's going to meet 'em!” they shouted, derisively.

Even the gentlemen about the young girl of the white hat in the club box who had backed the brown horse could not help joining in.

“Now, Miss Catherine, where are you?” asked Mr. Newby. “Will you allow that I can pick a horse better than you? If so, I 'll let you off.”

“He pulled him out to avoid striking those other men,” declared the girl, warmly. “I saw him.”

“Oh, nonsense! Who ever heard of a man pulling out in a steeplechase to avoid striking another horse? I have heard of a man pulling out to avoid killing his own horse; but that boy pulled out because his horse refused. That horse had more sense than he. He knew he could n't take it. Hello! what 's he doing?” For young Johnston, his face set hard, had turned his horse and headed him again toward the jump. At that moment the other horses were rising the slope on top of which was the next jump, and the brown caught sight of them. He had appeared till now a little bewildered; but the effect was electrical. His head went up, his ears went forward; a sudden fury seemed to seize him, and he shot forward like a rocket, while the crowd on the other side of the track hooted in derision.

“By Jove! He 'll go down if he rushes like that,” cried the men in the box. But he did not. He hardly appeared to see the fence before him any more than he heard the jeers of the crowd. With high head and pointed ears, he dashed at it, taking it in his stride, and clearing it with a mighty bound.

The crowd in the stands, carried away, burst into a storm of applause, and the gentlemen about the young girl of the big white hat clapped their hands.

Old Robin, down in the paddock, was shouting and talking volubly to a crowd of strangers.

“He 's a jumper! He 's got de pedigree. Dat 's blood. You ain' see my old master's hosses befo'.”

“Your old master's horses!” growled a gruff voice behind him. “You made me lose fifty dollars on yer blanked horse wid yer blanked lies. You 'll pay it back or yer won't see that watch ag'in.”

Robin glanced at the angry pawnbroker, but he did not have time to argue then. The horse galloping up the long slope before the stables engrossed his attention. He simply edged away from his reviler, who went off to “hedge” his bets, if possible.

“He 's a good horse, but he 's out of the race,” said one of the gentlemen who had been bantering Miss Ashland.

“Yes, but he never had a chance—a mere flash. You can't expect a common pick-up to run against a field like that.”

Mr. Newby turned back to the girl, who was leaning forward watching the horse going over the hill.

“Well, Miss Catherine, ready to ask terms yet?”

“No; was n't that the water-jump!”

“Yes; but he has got to go over it again. Come, I 'll bet you twenty to one he does n't win.”

“Done.”

“Now I 'll bet you a hundred and twenty to one he does n't get a place.”

“Done.”

“Now I 'll even things up, and bet you he does n't come in———”

“Done!” said the girl, turning on him with a sudden flash. “He shall come in, if I have to go down there and ride him in myself.”

An exclamation from one of the others broke in on this banter:

“Blessed if he is n't gaining on them!”

And sure enough, as the brown horse came out from beyond the hill, though he was still far to the rear of the field, he had undoubtedly lessened the gap between them. The young girl's eyes sparkled.

“Oh, he can't keep it up. He 's riding his heart out,” said one of the other gentlemen, with his glasses to his eyes. “But he 's a better horse than I thought, and if he had had a rider he might——”

“He has got to make the Liverpool, and he 'll never do it,” said Mr. Newby. “There he goes now. Watch him. Jupiter! he 's over!”

“Did you see that jump? He 's got stuff in him!”

“But not enough. He 's got to go around once and a half yet.”

“The blue is leading.” “Red-jacket is coming up.” “The green is done for,” etc.

So it went, with the horses coming around the curve for the second time. The favorite and about half the others were running well, their riders beginning to take the pace they proposed to keep to the end. Several others were trailing along behind at various distances, among them the two horses that had shot out in the lead at first, and behind all but the last one, which was manifestly already beaten, the big brown horse, galloping with head still up and ears still pointed forward, bent on catching the horses ahead of him.

The field swept by the stands, most of them getting safely over the big water-jump, though several of the horses struck hard, and one of them went on his knees, pitching his rider over his head. The country horse had still to take the leap, and all eyes were on him, for it was the jump he had refused. Bets were offered that he would refuse again, or that after his killing chase he would be too winded to clear it and would go down. At any rate, they agreed the boy who was riding him was crazy, and he could never last to come in.

Old Robin ran across the track to try and stop him. He waved his arms wildly.

“Pull out. You 'll kill him! Save him for another time. Don't kill him!” he cried.

But the young rider was of a different mind. The vision of two girls was in his thoughts—one a young girl down on an old plantation, and the other a girl in white in a front box in the club. She had looked at him with kind eyes and backed him against the field. He would win or die.

The horse, too, had his life in the race. Unheeding the wild waving of the old trainer's arms, he swept by him with head still up and ears still forward, his eyes riveted on the horses galloping in front of him. Once or twice his ears were bent toward the big fence as if to gauge it, and then his eyes looked off to the horses running up the slope beyond it. When he reached the jump he rose so far from it that a cry of anxiety went up. But it changed to a wild shout of applause as he cleared everything in his stride and lighted far beyond the water. Old Robin, whose arms were high in the air with horror as he rose, dropped them, and then, jerking off his hat, he waved it wildly around his head.

“He can fly. He ain't a hoss at all; he 's a bud!” he shouted. “Let him go, son; let him go! You 'll win yet.”

But horse and rider were beyond the reach of his voice, galloping up the slope.

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.”