spattering rain
of clods, a swirl of dust--and the Handicap was on.

"Nice start!" said the presiding judge, drawing a long breath.

Across the track, the official starter mopped his brow.

"Not so worse," said he. "Go on, you little devils! It's up to you!"

Away went the front runners, their riders checking them and rating
their speed with an eye to the long journey. Simple Simon, Pepper and
Salt, and Ted Mitchell engaged in a brisk struggle for the
pace-making position and the latter secured it. Miss Amber and
Regulator were in fifth and sixth places respectively, and at the
tail end of the procession was Black Bill, taking his time, barely
keeping up with the others. A distance race was no new thing to Black
Bill. He had seen front runners before and knew that they had a habit
of fading in the final quarter. Beside him was Elisha, matching him,
stride for stride.

Down the stretch they came, Ted Mitchell gradually increasing the
pace. Jockey Jones heard the crowd cheering as he passed the grand
stand and his lip curled.

"We eatin' it now, 'Lisha hawss," said he, "but nex' time we come
down yere they'll be eatin' _ow'_ dust an' don't make no mistake!
Take yo' time, baby. It's a long way yit, a lo-ong way!"

Entering the back stretch there was a sudden shifting of the coloured
jackets. The outsiders, nervous and overeager, were making their
bids for the purse, and making them too soon. The flurry toward the
front brought about a momentary spurt in the pace followed
immediately by the steady, machine-like advance of Regulator, but as
the chestnut horse moved up the brown mare went with him, on even
terms.

"There goes Regulator! There he goes!"

"Yes, but he can't shake Miss Amber! She's right there with him! Oh,
you Amber!"

"What ails Black Bill? He's a swell favourite, he is! He ain't done a
thing yet."

"He always runs that way," said the wise ones. "Wait till he hits the
upper turn."

Abe Goldmark, standing on a stool on the lawn, wrinkled his brow in
perplexity. "About time for that bird to quit," said he to himself.
"He ain't got any license to run a mile with a leg like that!"

Jockey Moseby Jones was also beginning to wonder what ailed Black
Bill. Grogan sat the favourite like a statue, apparently unmoved by
the gap widening in front of him.

"We kin wait 'long as he kin, baby," said Mose, comfortingly, "but I
sut'ny don't crave to see 'em otheh hawsses so far ahead!"

At the end of the m