We spent the morning at the stables by the track, and endured a good deal of abuse from the swipe boys, who looked down upon us from that upper level of horsedom. We knew it was justified, and made only a feeble response. We stood near with eyes and ears of envy while they jested with many a full round oath of their night's adventures. And I remember that one of them called to me:
“Here, sonny, keep away fr'm that mare's legs. She'll kick a hole in ye. If she don't I will. Come, now, take a walk. Run home to yer mammy.”
That was the mildest brand of scorn which they ladled out to us when we tried to show our familiarity with the “trottin'-hoss.” We found the stall of Montravers, but the trainer would not have us there despite our friendship for the owner. Driven by the contempt of our superiors from this part of the grounds, we haunted the rifle ranges and the gingerbread and lemonade stalls until the grand stand was thrown open. Henry left me for a while, and on his return said that he had wagered all our money on Montravers. I sat in a joyful trance until the bell rang.
The race began with our favorite among the five leaders of a large field. Suddenly the sky turned black. Montravers had broken and begun bucking, and acted as though he wanted to kick. He fell far behind, and when the red flag came down before him and shut him out of the race, I had to believe it, and could not. It was like having to climb a tree with a wolf coming, and no tree in sight.
Now, the truth is, Montravers might have won, but his driver sold the race, as we were to learn by and by—sold it for ten dollars and two bottles of whisky. He pulled and bedeviled the horse until the latter showed more temper than speed. The horse made every effort to get free and head the procession. He was on the square, that horse, but the ten-dollar man kept pulling. The horse was far more decent, more honest, more human than his driver; but the latter blamed the horse, and the New-Yorker got him for a thousand dollars less than he would have had to pay by any other method.
The ten-dollar man proved to be one of the few philanthropists in Griggsby. He became one of the great educators of the village. He stood by the gate that opened into the broad way of leisure. His cheap venality was like a dub in his hands, with which he smote the head of the fool and turned him back. If he had been a hundred-dollar man, the farms of the county would have gone to weeds.
Henry and I had only twenty-four cents between us. We met Mr. Smead coming from the stables. He was awfully cut up, in spite of that happy way he had of taking his trouble. We soon saw that something like an earthquake had happened to him.
“My education is complete,” said he, sadly. “I have got my degree; it is D.F. I have honestly earned it, and shall seek new worlds to conquer. The man who mentions hoss to me after this day shall perish by the sword of my wrath.”
He carried his little driving-whip in his hand.
“I have sold everything but this whip,” he added; “I keep that as a souvenir of my school days. Boys, are you ready to join me in a life of industry?”