A few moments later Johnson and McManus leaned over the top rail of the fence and watched the horses on their way to the post.
"That colt of yours looks a little stiff to me," said McManus critically.
"Nonsense! He may be a bit nervous, but he ain't stiff."
"Well, I hope he ain't. Curry's horse looks good."
Later they levelled their field glasses at the starting point. Johnson could see nothing but his own colours: a blazing cherry jacket and cap; McManus spent his time watching Little Mose and Elijah.
"Smiley, that nigger is playing for a running start."
"Let him have it. Zanzibar'll be in front in ten jumps. Hennessey knows just how to handle the colt, and he's chain lightning on the break."
"I suppose the boy on Blitzen'll take care of the nigger if he has to. Slats gave him orders. They're off!"
Johnson opened his mouth to say something, but the words died away into a choking gurgle. Instead of rushing to the front, the cherry jacket was rapidly dropping back. It was McManus who broke the stunned silence.