llis.

"No, it's a chestnut--there they go! Good boy, Westley. I mean Diablo's
jockey has done a fiendish clever thing. He came through his horses on
the jump, carried them off their feet, they all broke--yes, the flag's
down, and he's out with a clean lead."

Down in front a bell was clanging viciously; people were rushing with
frenzied haste from the betting ring, and clambering up the steps of the
stand; in the stand itself the whole vast mob had risen to its feet, and
even now the rolling beat of eager hoofs was in the aid, hushed of the
mob's clamor.

Yes, Crane had spoken truly; a great striding black, along whose neck
hung close a tiny figure in yellow and red, was leading the oncoming
horses. Allis strained her eyes trying to discover the little mare, but
she was swallowed up in the struggling mob that hung at Diablo's heels.
As they opened a little, swinging around the first turn, Allis caught
sight of the white-starred blue jacket. Its wearer was quite fifth or
sixth.

"Lucretia is doing well," said Crane; "she's holding her own; she's
lapped on White Moth."

It seemed strange to Allis that any other thought should come into her
mind at that time other than just concern for Lucretia, but she caught
herself wondering at Crane's professional words of description. For
the time he was changed; the quick brevity of his utterance tokened an
interested excitement. He was not at all like the Crane she knew, the
cold, collected banker.

"Lucretia's doing better," her companion added a few seconds later. "If
I were given to sentiment, I should say her gallop was the poetry of
motion. She deserves to win. But honestly, Miss Allis, I think she'll
never catch the Black; he's running like a good horse."

Allis could not answer; the strain was too great for words. It would be
all over in a minute or so; then she would talk.

"Your mare is creeping up, Miss Allis; she's second to the Black now,
and they've still a good three furlongs to go. You may win yet. It takes
a good horse to make all his own running for a mile and a quarter and
then in. His light weight may land him first past the post. There are
only four in it now, the rest are beaten off, sure. Diablo is still in
the lead; White Moth and Lucretia are a length back; and The King is
next, running strong. It's the same into the stretch. Now the boys are
riding; Lucretia is drawing away from White Moth--she's pressing Diablo.
You'll win yet!"

His voice was