Suddenly there was a roar of excitement.
"They 're off," was the cry from a thousand throats, and I and the other tardy ones rushed to find a favorable spot from which to view the race.
I had n't time to hunt up our box; so making for the fence, I forced my way in next to the rail just as the horses, all in a bunch, swung recklessly around the first turn.
As the race progressed they began to string out, one horse very clearly taking the lead.
"The Maid's in front, Senator Irby second," yelled an enthusiast just beside me. "Where's Sister Mary? Maid Marian 's quittin'. There 's Flora Thornton. Go on, you Flora. Maid Marian 's out of it. The Senator 's leadin'. Flora is second. Just look at Peytonia.
I leaned over the rail, my heart in my mouth. Down the stretch they came at a terrible pace; some three were in front, running almost as one. In a breath they were by us and under the wire, but which of the three was first I could not determine.
Instantly there was a babel of voices, in which Senator Irby, Peytonia and Flora Thornton were severally declared to have won, and a general movement toward the judges' stand was inaugurated for the purpose of learning "the official."
I had scarcely gone a dozen yards before I ran across Murray, viciously elbowing his way through the crowd.
There was something so irresistibly funny in the expression of rueful chagrin which sat upon his good-natured face, that I forgot my excitement and began to laugh immoderately.
"Now, what do you think of that for luck?" he exclaimed on catching sight of me; "Senator Irby, a stake-horse, to be beaten out by an old dog like Peytonia? It's enough to—"