! His head is on
a line with the other's shoulder! They are only one hundred yards from
the goal! The grand stand is wild with shouting! Those standing near
the track, unconscious of what they do, are throwing hats,
handkerchiefs and umbrellas into the air, and yelling like mad men! The
judges are sighting the line! They see a horse's brown head and
shoulders pass the line, then a black head appears, and Velox has won
by a neck's length.

CHAPTER VIII.

Prayer In a Dance Hall.

When the three horses crossed the finishing line, covered with sweat
and foam, LeMonde and Ketcham soon brought their mounts to a stop. Not
so the monster dwarf. Fearing that the crowd might do him personal
injury he rode the black horse directly to the stable. He was almost
beside himself with rage and disappointment. He ground his teeth
together, and froth showed upon his lips. His face was hideous in
expression. He shook his fist in the direction of the race course, and
cursed the victorious horse and rider with terrible oaths.

To Sam Wiles, who had come up, he said: "Anudder chance will come. I'll
git even wid dat proud aristocrat yit. I'm goin' to git back all de
money I lost today, and mo' too."

A different scene was taking place near the grand stand. When George
LeMonde, with flushed face and bright eyes, dismounted from his horse,
he was at once surrounded by an admiring crowd who showered him with
congratulations. They praised his skill as a horseman, his coolness
in a time of danger and emergency, and his good nature under great
provocation. Many were the admirers of Velox. They patted his
shoulders, stroked his head and commented on his beauty of color and
form. The horse took it in good part, and seemed to consider it a
proper tribute to the steed who won the race.

Among the rest who shook George heartily by the hand was a stout,
broad-featured man of about forty, who was dressed in a good suit of
blue jeans and wore what was uncommon in those days, a large diamond
pin in his shirt front. His name was Costello Nebeker, and he was a
tavern keeper on a country road not many miles away. The girl with a
white dress and shapely arm whom George saw as he flashed past the
grand stand was Stella Nebeker, the sixteen-year-old daughter of this
tavern keeper. She came forward, and in a happy way congratulated him
upon his success. They had known each other for some time; for we are
sorry to say, George on various occasions, ha