The Major shook his head vigorously. "No, no, my dear young lady, you mistake me," he cried. "It isn't the money value of the race that makes it. Forty thousand is a snug little sum, of course, but the Metropole is worth fifty, and the Belleview upwards of seventy. But it's the public sentiment, not the cash, that makes this race what it is. The Essex isn't any six furlong scramble for two-year-olds; it's a mile and a quarter for three-year-olds and upwards. It's none of your get-away sprints; it's a horse-race, from start to finish. And more than all that, it's our oldest stake race, with its records for thirty years filled with stories of courage and speed and daring and skill; it's part and parcel of the turf history of the country. Yes, by gad, sir—I beg your pardon, Miss Ashton, I do, indeed—the Essex Handicap's a part of American history itself."
Gordon, himself no mean authority on the history of the track, nodded affirmatively. "True, every word of it, Major," he cried. "Why, away back in '78—"
The Major fairly caught the words from the younger man's lips. "'78!" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir, Kingstreet's year. The greatest sire this country has ever known. I saw him win, sir, by three lengths, in 2:07½. Think of it, sir, for those days: 2:07½! Eleven years that record stood the test, until Contender's year. Ah! Miss Ashton, he was a race-horse. Gentle and kind and true. Home he came that year—'89, wasn't it? Yes, '89—home he came, simply romping in, fighting for his head, and the time 2:06 flat. Ah, there was a race-horse for you. And all the others, too. '96, Gordon, you can remember that; that finish between True Blue and the Florentine. Forty races the mare had to her credit, and, by gad, sir, that was the greatest of them all. A slow first half, and then how they fought it out to the wire. Won by a short head, and she came within a quarter second of the record at that. She went lame afterwards, poor thing, and never faced the flag again. A game, true little mare was the Florentine."
He paused reflectively, and Gordon, seeing the girl's evident interest, again touched the tinder to the flame. "Two years ago, Major," he began.
It was enough. The old man, in his eagerness, half started from his seat. "Yes, yes," he cried, "Custodian! Gordon, that horse, when he was right, was the king of the track." Then, turning to Rose, "Custodian was his name, Miss Ashton, a four-year-old then, black as the ace of spades, and ugly as the devil himself. He had his set days for running and his days for sulking, and nobody but himself could ever pick the days. If it was one of his off days, he'd be last in a field of selling platers; if he made up his mind to run, he was a whirlwind, a thunderbolt, whatever you want to call it, something more than human, anyway. The day of the Essex he started badly, four lengths behind his field, sulked to the quarter, and everybody who'd backed him was properly resigned to walking home, when all of a sudden he took it into his crazy head that he'd mistaken the day, after all. Run! Nobody ever saw such a mile before or since. He nipped Disdain and old Yarboro' a furlong from home, never let up at all, and came under the wire, as if he were just starting to run away, in 2:03¾! The point has never been settled to my knowledge, but it is my solemn belief"—he lowered his voice confidentially—"that if that horse had ever been driven to it, really hard pressed, you understand, he could have made the distance in two minutes flat. Well, I must get down to the paddock. Good-by, Miss Ashton; good-by, Gordon; look for my black to come under the wire in the lead."
He left them, and Rose, half bewildered, turned to Gordon. "It's a world by itself, isn't it, Dick?" she said. "I never thought men followed it that way. It's all Greek to me, I'm afraid."
Gordon laughed. "The Major's certainly an enthusiast," he answered, "but it isn't so mysterious, after all." He held his race-card that she might see, checking with his pencil as he talked. "There, here's the description of the race, and the money value, and all that. Here are the entries down here. The Cynic's the favorite. He's a four-year-old who's had a great record this season; very speedy and one of the most consistent horses in training; he's quoted at 3 to 1 against. Here's Rebellious, one of the best of the three-year-olds, 5 to 1 against. He's a good one, too, but I believe they think a mile and a quarter's a bit too far for him. Old Yarboro' here's campaigning for his fifth season, and pretty near as good as ever, too. He's third favorite, 8 to 1 against. These two here are a couple of 100 to 1 shots. Here's our friend Highlander, 30 to 1 against, and here's—" he broke off suddenly; then, after a moment, added in a very different tone, "Well, of all the remarkable coincidences—"
"What's the matter?" asked the girl quickly, struck by the unusual surprise in his manner.
For answer Gordon passed her the race-card, his pencil under the name of the last starter in the race.
"Palmer's got a horse entered," he said, still in amazement. "I remember now his saying something a while back about starting a string."