"You're no American," he scoffed. "You're a woman. That's all you are."
CHAPTER XLVIII
The Star-Spangled Jacket
As the two men took their places, the parade in front of the Grand Stand was in full swing.
There was a big field: some thirty starters in all.
The favourite, as the top weight, led them by at a walk.
She was quite at her ease, yet on fire as always, snatching at her bit in characteristic style. Chukkers rode her with long and easy rein, as though to show he trusted her. As she came by, the Grand Stand began to sing with one voice:
The maid of our mountains—
Mocassin's her name!
The speed of the panther;
The heart of the flame;
The Belle of the Blue Ridge,
The hope of the plain,
The Queen of Kentucky,
O, lift her again—
Chanted thus by tens of thousands of voices, singing round the course and up into the heavens, and culminating in the roaring slogan—
Mocassin! Mocassin! Mocassin!