ile Black Bill and Elisha were still at the end of
the procession. Miss Amber had managed to shove her brown nose in
front, with Regulator at her saddle girth. Many an anxious eye was
turned on Black Bill; many saw his transformation but none was
better prepared for it than Jockey Moseby Jones. He saw the first
wrap slide from Grogan's wrists.

"Come on, baby!" yelled Mose, bumping Elisha with his spurs. "Come
on! We got a race here afteh all! Yes, suh, 'is black hawss wakin'
up! Show him something, baby! Show him ow' _class_!"

Jockey Grogan laughed and flung an insult over his shoulder.

"Class? That skate?" said he. "Stay with us as long as you can. This
is a-a-a horse, nigger, a-a-a horse!"

Black Bill was beginning to run at last, as the grand stand
acknowledged with frenzied yells. Yes, he was running, but a gaunt
bay horse was running with him, stride for stride. Old Man Curry, at
the paddock gate, tugged at his beard with one hand and fumbled for
his tobacco with the other.

Side by side the black and the bay swept upon the floundering
outsiders, overwhelmed them, and passed on. Side by side they turned
into the home stretch, and only two horses were in front of
them--Regulator and Miss Amber. The mare was under the whip.

"You say you got a-a-a hawss there!" taunted Mose. "Show me how much
hawss he is!"

Grogan shook off the last wrap and bent to his work. Not until then
did he realise that the real race was beside him and not with the
chestnut out in front.

"Show him up, 'Lisha! Show him up!" shrilled Mose, and the bay
responded with a lengthened stride which gave him an advantage to be
measured in inches, but Black Bill gamely fought his way back on even
terms again. Miss Amber dropped behind. The boy on Regulator was
using his whip, but he might just as well have been beating a carpet
with it. Third money was his at the paddock gate.

Seventy-five yards--fifty yards--twenty-five yards--and still the two
heads bobbed side by side. Jockey Michael Grogan, hero of many a hard
finish; cool, calculating, and unmoved by the deafening clamour
beating down from the packed grand stand, measured the distance with
his eye--and took a chance. His rawhide whip whistled through the
air. Black Bill, unused to punishment, faltered for the briefest
fraction of a second, and came on again, but too late.

The presiding judge, an unprejudiced man with a stubby grey
moustache, squinted across an imaginary line and s