birds in autumn flight, in that they run in a wedge and
seem to obey a collective consciousness.

The jockeys ride high on the horses' shoulders and they ride for a
fall. The purple and blue jockey holds the lead and he's going some.
The enclosure says he is.

But the blue and silver jockey is fighting him for every inch and he's
gaining. The enclosure says he is.

The orange and black jockey is third. He's carrying my egg and butter
money. He'll win though, for the jockey who stays second or third must
get the advantage of the leading horses as a wind-shield. Presently he
will slip the bunch; he's sure to. The enclosure says he is. John
tells me to stop adjuring the jockey, that he will never hear me.

They've only a little way to go now--only a little way--and the orange
and black is coming steadily to the front. Even John gets excited and
keeps saying, "Good l'il ol' cayuse," and things like that, which are
bad form down East. Steadily on--steadily past the blue and
silver--steadily upon the haunches of the red and blue--now on his
shoulder--now on his neck--and now a neck ahead. This was how the
orange and black won, but you should have been there to see it.

And to think it all came from finding a two-eyed peacock feather in the
paddock!

Between races, we visit the paddock, insinuating our way through the
crowd in order to get near the ring where the horses show their paces
to the racegoers who make believe they are judges of speed, condition
and stamina. As a matter of fact, the horses are all very much
alike--wiry, wispy things like lean greyhounds with rippling veins that
stand out in relief, muscles of rawhide, and bell nostrils. There is
little difference in their speed either--a second, two seconds, or
mayhap three--but these seconds are, in their results, so vastly
different to the turfmen that all other contrarieties become as
nothing. The jockeys who know the horses from their hoofs up, and who
ride with instinct, are perhaps the only men who can fairly hazard what
the results will be--or should be.

They tell me that most of these jockeys die of consumption. This is
probably owing to the fact that they must rigidly train the flesh off
their bones. Napoleon said that Providence always favoured the
heaviest battalions. The dictum has no application to jockeys. Our
Western maxim that a cowboy is only as good as his nerves would be of
more general applicability.

But while, in the