by Wallace had made familiar slipped out
before he had time for second thought. "I knowed ye, Kittle-belly
Bickford, when ye wore patches on your pants bigger'n dinner-plates
and--"

President Kitchen let loose the hasp that held up the drop-door and
fairly "pegged" Mr. Todd out of sight. He grinned apologetically at
a furious Mr. Bickford.

"Order the marshal to call the hosses for the thirty-four trot,
Honer'ble," he directed, anxious to give the starter something to
do to take his mind off present matters.

Mr. Bickford obeyed, finding this exercise of authority a partial
sop to his wounded feelings.

Cap'n Sproul pendulumed dispiritedly to and fro in the little
enclosure, gloomily and obstinately waiting for the disaster that
his seaman's sense of impending trouble scented. Hiram Look was
frankly and joyously enjoying a scene that revived his old circus
memories.

Eleven starters finally appeared, mostly green horses. The drivers
were sullen and resentful. Marengo Todd was up behind a Gothic ruin
that he called "Maria M." When he jogged past the judges' stand to
get position, elbows on his knees and shoulders hunched up, the glare
that he levelled on Bickford from under his scoop visor was
absolutely demoniac. The mutter of his denunciation could be heard
above the yells of the fakers and the squawk of penny whistles.

Occasionally he scruffed his forearm over his head as though fondling
something that hurt him.

To start those eleven rank brutes on that cow-lane of a track would
have tested the resources and language of a professional. When they
swung at the foot of the stretch and came scoring for the first time
it was a mix-up that excited the vociferous derision of the crowd.
Nearly every horse was off his stride, the drivers sawing at the bits.

Marengo Todd had drawn the pole, but by delaying, in order to blast
the Honorable J. Percival with his glances, he was not down to turn
with the others, and now came pelting a dozen lengths behind, howling
like a Modoc.

Some railbird satirist near the wire bawled "Go!" as the unspeakable
riot swept past in dust-clouds. The Honorable Bickford had early
possessed himself of the bell-cord as his inalienable privilege. He
did not ring the bell to call the field back. He merely leaned far
out, clutching the cord, endeavoring to get his eye on the man who
had shouted "Go!" He declaimed above the uproar that the man who would
do such a thing as that was no gentle