“We will.... Hi! there she goes! That’s the stuff! Good girl! Look at her leave him!”
She was leaving him. Varunas had suddenly loosened his grip on the reins. Bending forward until his nose was close to Claribel’s flying tail he was urging her on. His shrill yells could be heard even above the shouts of the crowd.
“Go it, you, Claribel!” he was shrieking. “Lay down to it now! Now they begin to know they’re licked! Hi! hi! hi! Lay down to it, girl!”
The Townsend mare was well to the fore as they shot by at the end of the third turn and swung into the last lap. Rattler’s nose was scarce abreast the wheel of his rival’s sulky. Varunas never stopped yelling for an instant, but as every one else was doing the same thing it was harder to understand what he said. Esther was, although she did not know it, standing up in the dog-cart. Bob Griffin was standing beside her. Josiah Smalley, the youth entrusted with the care of the Townsend span, had forgotten his trust and was jumping up and down in the rear of the crowd.
The trotters passed the other end of the Circle and were swinging into the stretch. The finish was a matter of seconds. And then something happened. What it was Esther did not then know, but that it was serious there was no doubt, for the whole aspect of affairs changed in a flash.
From Claribel’s flank a black strip seemed to burst loose, to shoot into the air, to flap up and down. Her even trot faltered, changed to a jerky gallop. The yells of triumph from the Harniss contingent changed also—to groans, howls of warning, profane exclamations. Rattler was no longer a length behind; he was almost on even terms with the mare.
And then Varunas Gifford proved the stuff of which he was made. By main strength he pulled the frightened animal back into stride again. His whoops of triumph became soothing commands of encouragement. Claribel steadied, crept ahead once more, passed the line a winner—by not much, but a winner, nevertheless.
Esther screamed, clapped her hands and danced in the dog-cart. She was dimly conscious that Bob Griffin was dancing also and patting her on the back. Tom Doane and Frank Cahoon were performing one-legged jigs on the hubs of the wheels. The crowd was wild. And then the Townsend span, who, quite unnoticed had been dancing with the rest, started to run.
Doane and Cahoon fell to the ground, of course. Esther was thrown back to the seat; so was Bob Griffin. The crowd, those of its members standing nearest, scrambled headlong to avoid being hit or run over. The dog-cart bounced and rocked along the road.
It did not travel far. Young Griffin, beyond a startled grunt of surprise when the jerk threw him upon the seat, did not utter a word. He recovered his balance, leaned over the rocking dashboard, seized the trailing reins and, after a short struggle, pulled the horses to a walk and then to a standstill. Another moment and a dozen pair of hands were clutching at the bridles and voices were demanding to know if any one was hurt.