Jockey Merritt, wearing Engle's colours, stood in the paddock stall eyeing Eliphaz and listening to the whispered instructions of the new owner.
"Get him away flying, jock, and never look back. He's a fast breaker. Keep him in front all the way, but don't win too far."
"Bettin' much on him?" asked Merritt.
"Not a nickel. He opened at even money and they played him to 4 to 5. I don't fancy the odds, but you ride him just the same as if the last check was down—mind that. On his workout yesterday morning he's ready for a better race than any he's shown so far, so bring him home in front."
The bugle blared, the jockeys were flung into the saddles and the parade began. The race was at seven-eighths, and as the horses passed the grand stand on the way to the post Jockey Merritt heard his name called. Major Pettigrew was standing on the platform in front of the pagoda, bawling through a megaphone.
"Boy, bring that black hoss over here!"
Merritt reined Eliphaz across the track, touched the visor of his cap with his whip, and looked up inquiringly.
"Son," said Major Pettigrew, "you're on the favourite, so don't make any mistakes with him. I want to see you ride from start to finish—and I'm goin' to be watchin' you. That's all."
"I'll do my best, judge," was Merritt's answer.
"You see that the hoss does his best," warned the major. "Proceed with him, son."