the stretch on the first round Flambeau had drawn level with the
leading horse. As they swept past the stand, Chief, still behind and
well out, was running like a machine. Dorgan turned his face, twisted in
a grin, up to the stand.

"By George, the old boy thinks he has the race on toast!" Chetwood
exclaimed.

"He can't catch Flambeau now!" Kathleen asserted.

But to Angus came the recollection of a piece of the old jockey's
wisdom.

"Not every jock that knows pace is a good jock," he had said; "but no
jock is a good jock that don't. If you know pace and know you're makin'
the time, you don't need to worry. Your leaders will come back to you. I
never was no star rider, but pace is one thing I do know."

At the turn it was plainly a fight between the two horses. Angus saw
French's boy turn his head, and then sit down to ride. Dorgan was
motionless, lying flat, but the gap began to close. Angus glanced at
Kathleen. She was leaning forward, tense, eager, her lips drawn
straight, the color pinched from them. When he looked at the horses
again Chief's head was lapping Flambeau. French's boy went to his bat.
It rose and fell. At the same moment Dorgan seemed to sink into and
become part of his horse's neck.

For an instant they seemed to be running together. Then steadily,
surely, inch by inch the black and yellow crept past the maroon and
silver, and the chestnut head appeared in front of the bay. Into the
stretch they came, French's boy riding it out and fighting it out to the
last inch with Flambeau game to the core under terrific punishment. But
as they thundered past the stand Dorgan, his ear hugging Chief's neck,
was looking back beneath his arm, and there was clear daylight between
the horses.

Once more Angus glanced at Kathleen. She smiled as she met his eye.

"Well, you were right," she said.

"I hope you didn't lose much."

"We--I lost--plenty, thanks. Anyway, I'm proud of Flambeau. He was
outrun, but he ran game to the last foot."

With Chetwood, Angus went to see Dorgan. On the way they came upon Gavin
and Gerald French. The latter was tearing up a bunch of tickets. At
sight of them he laughed, tossing the fragments aloft.

"Good paper--once," he observed. "Give you a check to-night, Chetwood."

"Give you mine, too," said Gavin, lighting his pipe. "Good race, wasn't
it?"

"Rippin'," Chetwood agreed. "No hurry about settlements, you know."

"Oh, we may as well clean up," Gerald returned careless