"I might have known it!" I thought bitterly. "He looked it all along."
Then a gentle buzzing sprang up like a breeze. It was a whisper that grew to a muttering, and then became a rumble and at last one delirious roar. The giant had recovered, and his mighty cry brought me to my feet, my heart in my throat—for "Très Jolie" he roared … and coming!… coming!!… coming!!!… I saw the blue and gold!
A maniac rose among us and flung his fists above his head. He called upon his gods—and then that magic name—"Très Jolie," he shrieked: "Oh, Baby Doll!" It was Blister—and I marveled.
[Illustration: "Très Jolie!" he shrieked.]
I had seen him stand and lose his all without a sign of feeling. But now he raved and cursed and prayed and plead with his "Girlie!"—his "Baby Doll!", and with the last atom of her strength his sweetheart answered the call.
She reached, heaven alone knows how, the flank of the flying black, and inch by inch she crept along that flank until they struggled head to head.
"Oh, you black dog!" howled Blister, wild triumph in his voice. "You've got to beat a race hoss now!"
As though he heard, the black horse flattened to his work. Almost to the end he held her there, eye meeting eye. The task was just beyond him. Even as they shot under the wire, he faltered. But it was very close, and the shrieking hysterical grand-stand grew still and waited.