“They're at it ag'in—ole hoss, what fools! Whoa—steady there! Trumps is done fur, an' you'll see—No sand left in his crops, cooked—watch an' see, oh, my, Ben Butler—there—he's up now—up an' done fur—Go now—move some—hi—”
Trumps and Lizzette had raced it out to the head of the stretch. But Trumps was not equal to the clip which Travis had made cyclonic, knowing the horse was sadly distressed. Trumps stood it as long as flesh and blood could, and then jumped into the air, in a heart-broken, tired break. It was then that the old man began to drive, and moving like well-balanced machinery, the old pacer caught again the spirit of his youth, as the old time speed came back, and leaving Trumps behind he even butted his bull-dog nose into the seat of Lizzette's sulky, and clung determinedly there, right up to the wire, beaten only by a length.
Lizzette had won the heat. The judge hung out:
3rd Heat: Lizzette, 1st; Ben Butler, 2nd; Trumps distanced. Time, 2:20.
Lizzette had won, but the crowd had begun to see.
“The old pacer—the old pacer!”—they yelled.
Travis bit his lip—“what did it all mean? He had won the heat. Trumps was shut out, and there they were yelling for the old pacer!”
The Bishop was pale to the roots of his hair when he got out of the sulky.
“Great hoss! great! great!” yelled Bud as he trotted along bringing the blanket.
The old man bowed his head in the sulky-seat, a moment, amid the crash of the band and the noise of the crowd: