to the Tennessee Valley--trot or
pace. Parties entering, other than the match makers, to pay fifty
dollars at the wire._"

"Phew!" said the starting judge, as he scratched his head. Then he
stroked his chin and re-read the conditions, looking humorously down
over his glasses at the queer combination before him.

The audience took it in and began to shout: "Let him in! Let him in!
It's fair!"

But others felt outraged and shouted back: "No--put him out! Put him
out!"

The starting judge clanged his bell again, and the other three
starters came up.

Flecker, good-natured and fat, his horse in a warming-up foam,
laughed till he swayed in the sulky. Col. Troup, dignified and
reserved, said nothing. But Travis swore.

"It's preposterous!--it will make the race a farce. We're out for
blood and that purse. This is no comedy," he said.

The old man only smiled and said: "I'm sorry to spile the sport of
gentlemen, but bein' gentlemen, I know they will stan' by their own
rules."

"It's here in black and white, Travis," said the starter, "You made
it yourself."

"Oh, hell," said Travis hotly, "that was mere form and to satisfy the
Valley. I thought the entrance fee would bar any outsider."

"But it didn't," said the Judge, "and you know the rules."

"Let him start, let the Hill-Billy start!" shouted the crowd, and
then there was a tumult of hisses, groans and cat-calls.

Then it was passed from mouth to mouth that it was the old Cottontown
preacher, and the excitement grew intense.

It was the most comical, most splendid joke ever played in the
Valley. Travis was not popular, neither was the dignified Col. Troup.
Up to this time the crowd had not cared who won the purse; nor had
they cared which of the pretty trotters received the crown. It meant
only a little more swagger and show and money to throw away.

But here was something human, pathetic. Here was a touch of the stuff
that made the grand-stand kin to the old man. The disreputable cart,
the lifeless, blind old pacer, the home-made harness, the seediness
of it all--the pathos.

Here was the quaint old man, who, all his life, had given for others,
here was the ex-overseer and the ex-trainer of the Travis stables,
trying to win the purse from gentlemen.

"Ten to one," said a prosperous looking man, as he looked quietly
on--"the Bishop wants it for charity or another church. Like as not
he knows of some poverty-stricken family he's going to feed."

"If t