Evan's companions looked at him with awe, and Harris shivered a bit, drawing a little away.
The passions of the revengeful lad had been wonderfully aroused by the liquor he had taken, and he showed at his very worst just then.
"Toots does not seem to be pushing Nemo as he might," muttered Harlow. "The boy is taking it easy. If I did not know the attempt had failed I should think he had been bought off."
"Pawnee can't hold the lead," declared Harris. "I
am willing to bet all I have that he will not take the race."
"Hang Pawnee!" snarled Hartwick. "I do not care which horses secure the purses, if Merriwell's animal is not one of them."
"Well, it begins to look as if you were safe," came with some satisfaction from Harlow. "Black Boy is the favorite and he is crawling now. Already he is neck and neck with Lightfoot."
Hartwick's hand shook as he adjusted the field glasses he held and brought them to bear on the racing horses.
"It's all right. I know it's all right!" he muttered, hoarsely. "Lightfoot is holding the lead on Nemo. Frank Merriwell's horse is fifth, and the animal will not hold out to get around the track. I believe Nemo is swaying now. The horses behind are gaining! Ha! ha! How it will wring Merriwell's heart to see his beauty come in last!"
"This is early," cautioned Harris. "They have just reached the quarter now. Wait till they pass us before you begin to count your chickens, old man."