ever done better than fifty-two. Nal didn't buy no pools. He knows
better."

By a queer coincidence Mr. Roberts was also indulging in pleasing
introspection.

"The old cuss," he mused, "is blooded. I'll allow he's blooded, but he
thinks this a dead cert. Lemme see, fifty-one an' two make fifty-
three. No clip at all. Gosh! what a game, what a game! Why, there's
Mandy a-sittin' up with Mis' Root. I'll jest sashay acrost the track
an' give 'em my regards."

Mandy was atop a red-wheeled spring wagon. A sailor hat--price,
trimmed, forty-five cents--overshadowed her smiling face, and a new
dress cleverly fashioned out of white cheese cloth, embellished her
person. She had been watching her lover closely for upwards of an
hour, but expressed superlative surprise at seeing him.

"Why, Nal," she said demurely "this ain't you? You are acquainted with
Mis' Root, I guess?"

Nal removed his cap with a flourish, and Mrs. Root, a large,
lymphatic, prolific female, entreated him to ascend the wagon and sit
down.

"You have a horse runnin', Mister Roberts?"

"Yes, marm, By-Jo."

"By what?"

"By Diamond," replied Rinaldo, glibly, "outer Cap Wilson's old Sally.
She was by----"

"Mis' Root didn't catch the name right," interrupted Mandy. "It's By-
Jo, Mis' Root--that's French."

"Mercy me, ain't that nice--quite toney. I hope he'll win if Mister
Bobo's horse don't."

"Nal," whispered Mandy, "you've not been betting against Comet, have
you?"

"That's what I have, Mandy. I've got my hull stack o' chips on this
yere half-mile dash."

"But, Nal, Comet will win sure. Grandfather's crazy about the colt. He
says he can't lose no-way."

"That's all right," said Nal. "I'm glad he feels so well about it. Set
his heart on winnin', eh? That's good. Say, I guess I'll sit right
here and see the race. It's handy to the judges' stand, and the horses
are all on the track."

In fact, for some time the runners had been walking backwards and
forwards, and were now grouped together near the starter. Mr. Bobo was
in the timer's box, chuckling satanically. Fifteen hundred dollars,
according to his own computation, were already added to a plethoric
bank account.

"Yer feelin' well, Mister Bobo," said a bystander.

"I'm feelin' mighty well," he replied, "never was feelin' better,
never. There's a heap o' fools in this yere world, but I ain't
responsible for their mistakes--not much," and he cackled loudly.

After the usual annoying de