“The bay is a beauty. She’s made for the track.”
“But look at the slender chestnut! Fleet limbs, those.”
“I’ll pin my faith on the black.”
These and many like remarks greeted Billy’s ears, for everyone was ready to express their opinions of the values of each entry.
Now they are lining up for the first start, and under the rope they go, but not all together. Back they turn and again the bell sounds the signal. This time they are off, and how gallantly each horse responds to the will of the driver. Now they dash around the long oval, each taking his course, now on the outside, now on the inside as they make the curves.
“The black! The black!” comes the cry of approval as the dainty little mare forges ahead by one whole length.
“The bay gains. She wins! She wins!” and as they pass under the line and wheel about ready to repeat the performance, the excited spectators settle back into their seats, relieved of the strain and stress.
Again the jockeys form their line, each in his proper place, each eager to urge his mount to full capacity for speed, each hoping that this time the shouts of encouragement and approbation will be for him.
Billy is one of the best watchers. He is trembling in every limb, for well he knows the stress of the day for the animals in the harness, well he knows how earnestly each of the racers yearns to win, and how much they are disappointed when they come in any place but first.
Around and around they fly, jockeys using their whips, urging on and ever on with words uttered scarcely above a whisper, yet heard and obeyed by the alert steeds. Feet patter on the earth, dust rises and still on they fly, but oh, why the sudden silence? Why the bated breath? Why the stifled moans of all this vast multitude? Not a stir for a brief moment, for there in the track, directly in the path of the oncoming rush of horses toddles a little youngster, barely able to walk alone, all unmindful of its peril, taking its own time to cross the track.