The old man had a habit when keyed to high pitch, emotionally, of talking to himself. He seemed to regard himself as a third person, and this is the way he told it, heat by heat:
“Fus' heat, Ben Butler—Now if we can manage to save our distance an' leave the flag a few yards, we'll be doin' mighty well. Long time since you stretched them ole muscles of yo's in a race—long time—an' they're tied up and sore. Ever' heat'll be a wuck out to you till you git hot. If I kin only stay in till you git hot—(Clang—clang—clang). That's the starter's bell. Yes—we'll score now—the fus' heat'll be our wuss. They've got it in fur us—they'll set the pace an' try to shet us out an', likely es not, do it. God he'p us—Shiloh—Cap'n Tom—it's only for them, Ben Butler—fur them. (Clang!—Clang!) Slow there—heh—heh—Steady—ah-h!”
Clang—clang-clang! vigorously. The starter was calling them back.
They had scored down for the first time, but the hot-heads had been too fast for the old ambler. In their desire to shut him out, they rushed away like a whirlwind. The old pacer followed, rocking and rolling in his lazy way. He wiggled, shuffled, skipped, and when the strain told on the sore old muscles, he winced, and was left at the wire!
The crowd jeered and roared with laughter.
“He'll never get off!”
“He's screwed there—fetch a screw driver!”
“Pad his head, he'll fall on it nex'!”
“Go back, gentlemen, go back,” shouted the starter, “and try again. The old pacer was on a break”—Clang—clang—clang! and he jerked his bell vigorously.
Travis was furious as he drove slowly back. “I had to pull my mare double to stop her,” he called to the starter. “We were all aligned but the old pacer—why didn't you let us go?”