, ungainly strides. The jockey
on Auckland had counted the race as won--in fact, he had been
spending the winner's fee from the end of the second mile--but on the
upper turn the thud of hoofs came to his ears, and with them wild
whoops of encouragement. He looked back over his shoulder in surprise
which soon turned to alarm; the big hammer-head was barely six
lengths away and drawing nearer with every awkward bound. Jockey
McFee sat down on his imported mount and began to ride for a
five-thousand-dollar stake, a fat fee, his reputation, and several
other considerations, but always he heard the voice of the little
negro, coming closer and closer:

"Corn crop 'bout ripe, Faro! Jus' waitin' to be picked! That mare,
she come a long ways to git it, but she goin' git it good! Them
ribbons don't keep her f'um rockin'; she's all through! Go git her,
big hawss! Go git her!"

Jockey McFee slashed desperately with his whip as Pharaoh thundered
alongside, and the game mare gave up her last ounce: gave it up in a
losing fight. Once, twice, the ugly, heavy head and the head of the
equine aristocrat rose and fell side by side; then Auckland dropped
back beaten and broken-hearted while her conqueror pounded on to the
wire, to win by five open lengths....

At least one dream came true. Moseby Jones was carried off the track
in a gorgeous floral horseshoe, his woolly head bobbing among the
roses and his teeth putting the white carnations to shame. Shanghai
danced all the way from the judges' stand to the stables, not an easy
feat when one considers that he was leading the winner of the
Thornton Stakes, also garlanded and bedecked within an inch of his
life, but, in spite of all his floral decorations, extremely
dignified.

Old Man Curry fought his way through a mob of reporters and
fair-weather acquaintances to find himself face to face with the only
real surprise of the day. A sharp-faced youth, immaculately dressed,
leaped upon him, endeavouring to embrace him, shake his hand and
congratulate him, all in a breath. "Frank!" cried the old man. "Bless
your heart, boy, where did you come from?"

"From Butte," answered the Bald-faced Kid. "Wanted to get some ideas
on the spring trade; saw you had a horse in the Thornton Stakes;
thought I might find you; got here just as the race finished.
Old-timer, how are you? You don't know how good it is to see you
again!"

"I know how good it is to see you, my son!" The old man laid his arm
a