“We will, sah, we will!” said Col. Troup. “But if that rattling contraption skeers my mare, I'll appeal to the National Association, sah. I'll appeal—sah,” and he drove off up the stretch, hotter than his mare.
And now the track was cleared—the grand stand hummed and buzzed with excitement.
It was indeed the greatest joke ever played in the Tennessee Valley. Not that there was going to be any change in the race, not that the old preacher had any chance, driving as he did this bundle of ribs and ugliness, and hitched to such a cart—but that he dared try it at all, and against the swells of horsedom. There would be one heat of desperate fun and then—
A good-natured, spasmodic gulp of laughter ran clear through the grand-stand, and along with it, from excited groups, from the promenade, from the track and infield and stables, even, came such expressions as these:
“Worth ten dollars to see it!”
“Wouldn't take a hoss for the sight!”
“If he did happen to beat that trio of sports!”
“Boss, it's gwinter to be a hoss race from wire to wire!”
“Oh, pshaw! one heat of fun—they'll shut him out!”
In heart, the sympathy of the crowd was all with the old preacher.