"Everything all right?" I asked.
"Fine as silk," he said cheerfully, dropping into a seat. "You'll see a race hoss run to-day! Here they come! She's in front!" And held to a proud sedateness by their tiny riders, the contenders in the derby filed through the paddock-gate.
At the head of these leashed falcons was a haughty, burnished, slender-legged beauty—the proudest of them all. Her neck was curving to the bit and she seemed to acknowledge with a gracious bow the roar of acclamation that greeted her. She bore the number 1 upon her satin side, and dropping my eyes to my program I read:
1. Très Jolie—b. m. by Hamilton—dam Alberta. John C. Dillon, Lexington, Kentucky. (Manders—blue and gold.)
"What sort of jockey is Manders?" I asked Blister.
"Good heady boy," was the reply.
"Virginia, oh, Virginia, isn't she a lamb?" gasped Mrs. Dillon.
"She's a stuck-up miss," said Miss Goodloe in an even tone, and I almost hated her.
Number 2 I failed to see as they paraded past.
Number 3 was a gorgeous black, with eyes of fire, powerful in neck and shoulders, and with a long driving hip. He was handsome as the devil and awe-inspiring. Applause from the stands likewise greeted him, though it was feeble to the howl that had met the favorite.