ure she'll run as fast as any of them."

"Can't live in that mob; they'll smother a little thing like her,"
declared the man, emphatically. "Where are we--ten, eleven, The King,
that's the winner for a hundred. Look at him. He carries my money.
It's all over now; they can't beat him. That's a fine looker, though,
thirteen,--Diabo, eh? What's that horse Diablo, George?" turning to one
of the men.

"No good--a maiden; I looked them all up in the dope book; how they
expect to win the Brooklyn with a maiden gets beyond me."

Somewhat tortured, Allis listened to the voluble man on her left, who
was short and fat, and red of face, as he graded, with egotistical
self-sufficiency, the thirteen competitors for the big Handicap.
Lucretia he had passed over in disdain. Crude as his judgment seemed,
arrogantly insufficient, it affected Allis disagreeably. Now that
everything had been done, that the last minute of suspense was on, she
was depressed. The exhilaration of preparation had gone from her, and
the words of the captious man on her left, "that little runt," hung with
persistent heaviness on her soul. All the vast theater of the stand
was a buzz of eager chatter. Verily it was a race; it was the Brooklyn
Handicap. Lips that smiled gave a mocking lie to drawn, strained faces,
and nervous, shifting eyes, that told of the acceptance of too deep a
hazard. The weeks and months of mental speculation embodied in heavy
bets would have their fruit ripened and plucked within a brief half
hour.

Allis's gaze dropped to the grass lawn in front of the stand for a
minute, her eyes seeking repose from the strain of watching the horses
as they went down to the starting post. How fretfully erratic were the
men who dotted its green sward with gray and solemn black! The deeper
interest Allis had over there on the course where was the little mare,
seemed to lift her to a great height above them. How like ants they
were, crossing and recrossing each other's paths, twisting and turning
without semblance of an objective point, creatures of an impulse almost
lower than instinct, devoid of this well-directed governing motive.
Yes, they were like an army of ants that had been suddenly thrown
into confusion. She saw one of them come hurriedly out of the paddock,
talking impetuously with bended head--for he was tall--to a short man
in gray tweed, beyond doubt a trainer. Suddenly the tall man broke away,
hurried to the rail which separated the lawn f