etting ring, and paddock, and
lawn became alive because of their buzz; tier after tier, from step
to roof, the serrated line of whitefaced humanity waited for the grand
struggle.

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.

"Ye'r talking now, Miss Allis. Luck's the trick from this out. The
little mare'll have a straight run this trip. Here's the b'y comin' now,
and a good b'y he is."

A little man in blue jacket and white stars joined them, saluting Miss
Allis with his riding whip. "Are you going to win, Redpath?" asked the
girl.

"I'm going to try, Miss. She's a sweet mare to ride, but it's a big
field. There's some boys riding that ought to be in the stable rubbing
horses."

"You'll have to get out in front," said Dixon, speaking low; "your
mare's too light to stand crowdin', an' even if you have to take her
back for a breather after you've gone half the journey, she'll come
again, for she's game."

"Them Langdon fellows thinks they've got a great chance wit' our
cast-off, Diablo," volunteered Mike. "I had a peep at him in the stall,
an' he's lookin' purty fit."

"He never was no class," objected Dixon.

"If ye'd see him gallop the day he run away, ye'd think he had class,"
said Mike. "Bo