An explanation suddenly occurred to Joan. She nudged Effie May. "Look at this funny old soul behind us! She's evidently the mother of the jockey that's riding Will-o'-the-Wisp," she whispered.
Effie May glanced briefly over her shoulder, and smiled. "Mother nothing! That's Texas Nell, who's been following the ponies since the day of Molly McCarthy. She's lost and won more money, I guess, than any woman in the business."
A little later she suggested that they all adjourn to the Club House for refreshments; but Archie Blair had come with the promise of taking Joan down to the paddock later, and she decided to stay where she was.
Archie, who seemed to know everybody, pointed out various celebrities who were present; fine old General Dutton, down from Lexington with his flock of famous though still unmarried daughters; Nick Sanders of the Pisgah neighborhood, who had just escaped conviction for manslaughter because of the unwritten law; Mrs. Kildare of Storm, a splendid-looking woman in mannish hat and driving coat, here to see one of her colts go to the post in the Derby—though of late years Storm was raising mules instead of race-horses.
"A shame, too, when it's one of the oldest stud-farms in the State," commented Archie. "Racing's on its last legs when people like the Kildares turn to breeding mules!"
But racing did not appear to be on its last legs that day. The eagerness, the wild enthusiasm, above all the joyousness of the crowd, struck an answering chord in Joan. For the first time she really understood the devotion of Kentuckians to their State and to each other. It is never their work that endears a people to each other; it is their play. In a world that takes itself overseriously, Kentucky still knows how to play.
She followed Archie presently down toward the paddock where the winner was to receive his ovation; but as they reached the foot of the staircase, suddenly there was the sharp explosion of a pistol. Instantly the crowd surged in the direction of the shot.
Archie, placing her behind him, forged his way through the struggling mass to the nearest wall, where he stood her, breathless and disheveled, but undismayed.
"Goodness! This is local color with a vengeance! What's happening? Do you suppose it's your man-eating friend from Pisgah?"
"Just an old woman shot herself, they say," volunteered a friendly voice near by, "Cleaned out, I reckon!"