to
see the horses. A curious crowd they were--stout men, heavy-jawed and
coarse-lipped; thin men, sharp-eyed and fox-faced; small, keen men,
evil-looking boys, and round-faced, jovial-looking fellows--all
stamped with _horse_. Among these mingled refined-looking gentlemen and
fashionably dressed ladies.

Even under their blankets the horses were a fine-looking lot.

Among the crowd was a group of which the center was a young and very
pretty girl. A simple white gown became her youth and freshness, and a
large white hat with a long white ostrich-feather curled over the brim,
shading her piquant face, added to her charm. A few pink roses fastened
in her dress were the only color about her, except the roses in her
cheeks. Most of those with her were men considerably older than herself.
They appeared, rather, friends of her father, Colonel Ashland, a
distinguished-looking gentleman, known to turfmen as the owner of one of
the best stock-farms in the country. He loved horses, but never talked
of them. The young lady had just left school, and had never seen a
steeplechase before, and her eagerness kept her companions in continual
merriment. They were bantering her to bet, which she had as yet refused
to do. All were deeply interested in the race. Indeed, two of the
gentlemen with Colonel Ashland, Colonel Snowden and Mr. Galloper, had
horses entered in the steeplechase; and as they examined the horses
and made observations on them apt as a proverb, many of the bystanders
strained their ears to catch their words, in hopes of getting a few last
points on which to lay their bets.

Hurricane, a medium-sized bay, was next to the favorite; but Swallow,
a big-boned sorrel, was on his form going up in the betting, and Mr.
Galloper was in fine spirits. He was bantering his friend for odds that
his big chestnut with the cherry colors would not beat the favorite.

Presently in the round came, led by an elderly negro, whose face wore a
look portentous of mystery, a big horse covered with a sheet. A set
of clean legs appeared below the sheet, and the head set on the long,
muscular neck was fine enough for a model.

"What horse is that?" asked one of the gentlemen. It was the same
question that many were asking as the horse walked with a long,
easy swing, as quiet, yet as much at home, as if he were in his own
stable-yard.

"Hello! that must be the new entry--'J. D.,'" said Colonel Snowden,
pushing forward to get a good look at him.