Mad with surprise and rage, he struggled and kicked like a wild animal. "Damn you," he yelled, "let me go; let go, I say! What in hell do you mean?"
"Let him go, Mike," said the doctor. Mike pushed Simms from him, and he staggered back against the fence. The man was crazy with rage, and I believe for the moment he was really insane. He half crouched as if to spring at us, snarling and showing his teeth like a savage dog, then his hand went to his hip pocket.
"I wouldn't try that if I were you, Simms," said Watson quietly. "You will get the worst of it if you do."
Watson's right hand was in the pocket of his sack-coat, and his eyes said, "I'll shoot," as plainly as if he had told Simms so in so many words.
"See here, you," cried Mike, "if you pull a gun I'll smash your jaw!"
Simms looked from one to the other of us, with the expression of a madman. His face was ghastly white, and the scar on his cheek stood out livid, in contrast with the white skin. I thought for a moment he was about to draw his revolver, but suddenly he turned and ran toward the crowd, and in a moment was lost to our view.
The shouting and cheering still kept up, and, as we hurried toward the Grand Stand, Watson asked a man which horse had won.
"Emperor, by a length,—a great race!"
We found Blake in front of the stand. He came to us and shook hands. His face was beaming with the joy of success.