sts pretty well, so begin workin' on 'Lisha sooner than usual. He's
ready to stand a long, hard drive. Bring him home in front, boy!"

"Sutny will!" chuckled the little negro. "At's bes' thing I do!"

When the barrier rose, a grey streak shot to the front and went
skimming along the rail, opening an amazingly wide gap on the field.
It was the Ghost's habit to make every post a winning one; he liked
to run in front of the pack.

As he piloted the big bay horse around the first turn into the back
stretch, Jockey Mose estimated the distance between his mount and the
flying Ghost, taking no note of the other entries. Then he began to
urge Elisha slightly.

"Can't loaf much to-day, hawss!" he coaxed. "Shake yo'self! Li'l mo'
steam!"

The men who had played the Curry horse to odds on and thought they
knew his running habits were surprised to see him steadily moving up
on the back stretch. It was customary for Elisha to begin to run at
the half-mile pole--usually from a tail-end position--but to-day he
was mowing down the outsiders even before he reached that point, and
on the upper turn he went thundering into second place--with the
Ghost only five lengths away. The imported jockey on Parker's horse
cast one glance behind him, and at the head of the stretch he sat
down hard in his saddle and began hand riding with all his might.
Close in the rear rose a shrill whoop of triumph.

"No white hawss eveh was _game_, 'Lisha! Sic him, you big red rascal,
sic him! Make him dawg it!"

But the Ghost was game to the last ounce. More than that, he had
something left for the final quarter, though his rider had not
expected to draw upon that reserve so soon. The Ghost spurted, for a
time maintaining his advantage. Then, annihilating incredible
distances with his long, awkward strides and gathering increased
momentum with every one, Elisha drew alongside. Again the Ghost was
called on and responded, but the best he had left and all he had
left, was barely sufficient to enable him to hold his own. Opposite
the paddock inclosure, with the grand stand looming ahead, the horses
were running nose and nose; ten yards more and the imported jockey
drew his whip. Moseby Jones cackled aloud.

"You ain't _stuck_ on 'is yere white sellin' plater, is you, 'Lisha?
Whut you hangin' round him faw, then? Bid him good night _an'
good-bye_!"

He drove the blunt spurs into Elisha's sides, and the big bay horse
leaped out and away in a whirlwind fin