The overflow straggled along the steps to the
edge of the Waterman box. One genial gentleman was forced finally to
sit on the rail, so that his elbow stuck straight into the middle of
the back of George's huntsman's pink.

George moved impatiently. "Can't you find any other place to sit?"

The genial gentleman beamed on him. "I have a seat over there. But we
came down to see Mrs. Paine. She is in Judge Bannister's box and we
board with her--at King's Crest. And say, she's a corker!"

George, surveying Becky with increasing interest, decided that she was
a bit above her surroundings. She sat as it were with--Publicans.
George may not have used the Scriptural phrase, but he had the feeling.
He was Pharisaically thankful that he was not as that conglomerate
group in the Bannister box. A cheap crowd was his estimate. It would
be rather nice to give the little girl a good time!

Filled, therefore, with a high sense of his philanthropic purpose, he
planned a meeting. With his blue eyes on the flying horses, with his
staccato voice making quick comments, he had Becky in the back of his
mind. He found a moment, when the crowd went mad as the county
favorite came in, to write a line on the back of an envelope, and hand
it to Kemp, who hovered in the background, giving him quiet
instructions.

"Yes, sir," said Kemp guardedly and stood at attention until the races
were over, and the crowd began to move, and then he handed the note to
Judge Bannister.

The Judge put on his glasses and read it. "Where is he?" he asked Kemp.

"In the other box, sir. The one above."

"Tell him to come down."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

The Judge was as pleased as Punch. "That man up there in Waterman's
box has heard of my collection," he explained to his party. "He wants
me to settle a point about the Virginia partridge."

"Which man?" Randy's tone was ominous.

Dalton's arrival saved the Judge an answer. In his hunting pink, with
his Apollo head, Dalton was upon them. The Judge, passing him around
to the members of his party, came at last to Becky.

"My granddaughter, Becky Bannister."

With George's sparkling gaze bent full upon her, Becky blushed.

Randy saw the blush. "Oh, Lord," he said, under his breath, and stuck
his hands in his pockets.

"I've always called it a quail," Dalton was saying.

"You would if you come from the North. To be exact, it isn't either,
it's an American Bob-white. I'd be glad t