Ben Butler stood ready, the bell clanged again. Jack helped him into the sulky; never had he seen the old man so feeble. Travis was already at the post.
They got the word immediately, but to the old man's dismay, Travis's mare shot away like a scared doe, trotting as frictionless as a glazed emery wheel.
The old man shook up Ben Butler and wondered why he seemed to stand so still. The old horse did his best, he paced as he never had before, but the flying thing like a red demon flitted always just before him, a thing with tendons of steel and feet of fire.
“Oh, God, Ben Butler, what is it—what? Have you quit on me, ole hoss?—you, Ben Butler, you that come in answer to prayer? My God, Cap'n Tom, Shiloh!”
And still before him flew the red thing with wings.
At the half, at the three-quarters: “Now ole hoss!” And the old horse responded gamely, grandly. He thundered like a cyclone bursting through a river-bed. Foot by foot, inch by inch, he came up to Travis's mare. Nose to nose they flew along. There was a savage yell—a loud cracking of Travis' whip in the blind horse's ears. Never had the sightless old horse had such a fright! He could not see—he could only hear the terrible, savage yell. Frightened, he forgot, he dodged, he wavered—
“Steady, Ben Butler, don't—oh—”
It was a small trick of Travis', for though the old pacer came with a rush that swept everything before it, the drive had been made too late. Travis had the heat won already.
Still there was no rule against it. He could yell and crack his whip and make all the noise he wished, and if the other horse was frightened, it was the fault of his nerves. Everybody who knew anything of racing knew that.
A perfect tornado of hisses met Travis at the grand-stand.