And now, after lunch, the grand stand had been quickly filled, for the fame of the great race had spread up and down the valley, and the valley dearly loved a horse-race.
Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse, but this race was three thousand!
Three thousand! It would buy a farm. It would buy thirty mules, and twice that many steers. It would make a family independent for life.
And to-day it was given to see which one, of three rich men, owned the best horse.
No wonder that everybody for miles around was there.
Sturdy farmers with fat daughters, jaded wives, and lusty sons who stepped awkwardly on everything on the promenade, and in trying to get off stepped on themselves. They went about, with broad, strong, stooping shoulders, and short coats that sagged in the middle, dropping under-jaws, and eyes that were kindly and shrewd.
The town people were better dressed and fed than the country people, and but only half way in fashion between the city and country, yet knowing it not.
The infield around the judges' stand, and in front of the grand-stand, was thronged with surreys and buggies, and filled with ladies and their beaux. A ripple of excitement had gone up when Richard Travis drove up in a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns and alive with merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmore was supposed to be on the driver's box with the owner, she was not there.
Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding—Trumps, and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's mare—Trombine—had her partisans who were also vociferous. But Travis's entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse.
Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spun merrily around the track, and Col. Troup joined him with Trombine, and the audience watched the three trotters warm up and shouted or applauded each as it spun past the grand-stand.