They got the word at the first score, Trumps and Lizzette going at it hammer and tongs—Ben Butler, as usual, trailing.
The old man sat pale and ashy, but driving like the born reinsman that he was.
“Steady, old hoss, steady agin'—jes' save our distance, that's all—they've done forgot us—done forgot us—don't know we're here. They'll burn up each other an' then, oh, Ben Butler, God he'p us! Cap'n Tom, Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh! Steady, whoa there!—Lord, how you're lar'nin'! How the old clip is comin' agin! Ho—hi—there ole hoss—here we are—what a bresh of speed he's got—hi—ho!”
And the grand-stand was cheering again, and as the old man rode up the judges hung out:
2nd Heat: Trumps, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd; Ben Butler, 3rd. Time, 2:15½.
The old man looked at it in wonder: “Two fifteen an' not shet out, Ben Butler? Only five lengths behind? My God, can we make it—can we make it?”
His heart beat wildly. For the first time he began to hope.
Trumps now had two heats. As the race was best three out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker of Tennessee would win the race and the purse. But when the old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye told him the gallant gelding was all out—he was distressed greatly—in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced at Lizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. His heart fell.
“Trumps is done fur, Ben Butler, but Lizzette—what will Travis do?—Ah, ole hoss, we're up ag'in it!”
It was too true, as the next heat proved. Away Trumps and Lizzette went, forgetful of all else, while the old man trailed behind, talking to, soothing, coaxing the old horse and driving him as only a master could.