Doane and Cahoon were among the first to reach the carriage. When they learned that no harm had been done their elation at Claribel’s victory overcame all other feelings.
“We licked ’em, didn’t we, Esther,” crowed the exultant Thomas. “By thunder! I thought we were gone when that breeching broke. But we weren’t! Ho, ho! Pretty fair horses we have over here in Harniss; eh, Bob? And pretty good drivers, too!”
Griffin was out of breath, but laughing.
“Good enough!” he admitted. “Of course, I didn’t care who won. If it had been a Denboro horse now—”
Frank Cahoon’s derisive howl cut him short.
“Oh, no!” he shouted. “You didn’t care! Did you see him jumping up and down, Esther? Ho, ho! Say, Bob! What do you suppose your grandfather ’Lisha would have said if he’d seen you rooting for a Foster Townsend horse? Oh, ho! Why—”
He did not finish the sentence. The crowd behind him had parted. Foster Townsend himself was standing at his elbow. The great man was not as calmly dignified as usual. He was out of breath and his expression was one of alarm and anxiety. He pushed young Cahoon aside—as a matter of fact, Frank was only too eager to escape—and came to the side of the dog-cart.
“Are you all right, Esther?” he demanded, sharply. “Not hurt or anything?”
Esther was a little pale, but as much from the excitement of the race as from the short-lived runaway.
“Oh, not a bit, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “Not a bit, truly. I am all right.”