Then the starting-judge held up a silk bag in the center of the wire. It held three thousand dollars in gold, and it swung around and then settled, to a shining, shimmering silken sack, swaying the wire as it flashed in the sun.
The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers, being gentlemen, were heedless of rules and drove on around still warming up.
The starting-judge was about to clang again—this time more positively—when there appeared at the draw-gate a new comer, the sight of whose horse and appointments set the grand-stand into a wild roar of mingled laughter and applause.
As he drove demurely on the track, he lifted quaintly and stiffly his old hat and smiled.
He was followed by the village blacksmith, whose very looks told that they meant business and were out for blood. The audience did not like the looks of this blacksmith—he was too stern for the fun they were having. But they recognized the shambling creature who followed him as Bud Billings, and they shouted with laughter when they saw he had a sponge and bucket!
“Bud Billings a swipe!”
Cottontown wanted to laugh, but it was too tired. It merely grinned and nudged one another. For Travis had given a half holiday and all Cottontown was there.
The old man's outfit brought out the greatest laughter. The cart was a big cheap thing, new and brightly repainted, and it rattled frightfully. The harness was a combination—the saddle was made of soft sheep skin, the wool next to the horse, as were also the head-stall of the bridle, the breast-strap and the breeching. The rest of it was undressed leather, and the old man had evidently made it himself.
But Ben Butler—never had he looked so fine. Blind, cat-hammed and pacing along,—but his sides were slick and hard, his quarters rubber.
The old man had not been training him on the sandy stretches of Sand Mountain for nothing.