They reached the car as the Ramblin' Kid, at the horse entrance, at the other end of the grandstand, came on the track with the Gold Dust maverick.
Old Heck looked up when the group approached. He saw the agony in
Carolyn June's eyes and started to speak.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid's drunk," Skinny said dully. "He showed up—yonder he is—" as the beautiful copper-tinted, chestnut filly appeared behind the other horses entered for the two-mile sweepstakes.
"Drunk?" Old Heck cried incredulously. "Are you sure?"
"Watch him!" Chuck said miserably.
The starter was standing with arm outstretched and flag ready to fall. The filly came down the track jumping nervously from side to side in short springing leaps. The starter paused, watch in hand. A shout of admiration and wonder went up from the crowd as the splendid creature dancing down the track was recognized. The next instant it was succeeded by a cry of horror that rolled in a great wave from a thousand throats.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid is drunk! He's drunk—the mare will kill him!" as they saw the slim rider weaving limply in the saddle, his head dropped forward as if he were utterly helpless.
"Rule that horse off the track!" Dorsey, who was standing with Mike
Sabota, in a box-seat just below the judges' stand, shouted as he saw
the Ramblin' Kid, even in his half-conscious condition, reining the Gold
Dust maverick with consummate skill into position, "her rider's drunk!"
The Ramblin' Kid heard the voice and—by some miracle of the mind—recognized it, although his eyes, set and glassy, could not see the speaker.
He turned his head in the direction from which the cry came and answered, slowly measuring each word: