“Because I am starting these horses by the rules, Mr. Travis. I know my business,” said the starter hotly.
Col. Troup was blue in the face with rage.
Flecker laughed.
They all turned again and came down, the numbers on the drivers' arms showing 1, 2, 3, 4—Travis, Troup, Flecker, and the old Bishop, respectively.
“Ben Butler, ole hoss, this ain't no joke—you mus' go this time. We ain't goin' to meetin'—Stretch them ole legs as you did!—oh, that's better—ef we could only score a few more times—look!—ah!”
Clang—clang—clang!
This time it was Col. Troup's mare. She broke just at the wire.
“She saved us that time, Ben Butler. We wus two rods behind—”
They came down the third time. “Now, thank God, he's jes' beginnin' to unlimber,” chuckled the old man as the old pacer, catching on to the game and warming to his work, was only a length behind at the wire, as they scored the fourth time, when Flecker's mare flew up in the air and again the bell clanged.
The crowd grew impatient. The starter warned them that time was up and that he'd start them the next time they came down if he had the ghost of a chance.