“The flag—now—ole hoss—for Jesus' sake!—”
He reached out in the old way, lifted his horse by sheer great force and fairly flung him ahead!—
“Flu-r-r-r!” it was Lizzette's breath as he went by her. He shot his eyes quickly sideways as she flailed the air with her forefeet within a foot of his head. Her eyes glowed, sunken,—beat—in their sockets; with mouth wide open, collapsed, frantic, in heart-broken dismay, she wabbled, staggered and quit!
“Oh, God bless you, Ben Butler!—”
But that instant in the air with her mouth wide open within a foot of the old man's head her lower teeth exposed, the old driver saw she was only four years old. Why had he noticed it? What mental telepathy in great crises cause us to see the trifles on which often the destiny of our life hangs?
Ben Butler, stubborn, flying, was shaking his game old head in a bull-dog way as he went under the wire. It maddened him to be pulled up.
“So, softly, softly old fellow! We've got 'em licked, you've got religin' in yo' heels, too. Ain't been goin' to church for ten years for nothin'!”
The old man wanted to shout, and yet he was actually shedding tears, talking hysterically and trembling all over. He heard in a dazed way the yells and thunder from the grand-stand. But he was faint and dizzy, and worst of all, as he laughed to himself and said: “Kinder sissy an' soft in spots.”
Jack and Bud had Ben Butler and were gone. No wonder the grand-stand pulsed with human emotion. Never before had anything been done like this. The old, blind pacer,—the quaint old preacher—the thing they were going to shut out,—the pathos, the splendor of it all,—shook them as humanity will ever be shaken when the rejected stone comes up in the beauty of purest marble. Here it was:
4th Heat: Ben Butler, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd. Time, 2:19½.