The stallion was in splendid condition. With pride his master eyed his superb limbs and glossy coat.
Again the bell tapped, and the race-horse was led on the track.
As Emory passed in front of the ladies’ stand, he gave a fleeting glance to where a well-known blue, lace covered parasol waved its drooping fringe before the half-revealed face, which he thought he recognized. The soft folds of a silk dress he once admired, with Paris gloves to match, made him almost certain he knew where she sat.
Again the bell! This time two hasty taps. A jockey in red and blue brushed by him and ran under the judges’ stand, his saddle on his arm.
A crier called out the horses’ names: “Black Boy! Bay Thomas! Cliquot!”
Around the pools went the sound, repeated a hundredfold: “Black Boy! Bay Thomas!” But ever at the name of Cliquot a yell went up and the rabble clattered louder.
A few last notes from the band, a tightening of girths and the constant tapping of the bell. At length the three horses have turned and trotted slowly up the quarter-stretch. Yellow and white are the colors worn by the jockey who rides Black Boy, pink and green those of Bay Thomas, while red and blue distinguish Cliquot’s.
Cliquot was behaving well. Neil, from behind the bell, watched him stepping softly on towards the starting post, his jockey’s back-curls shining in the sun. Every nerve in the owner’s body quivered, and his brain whirled to the verge of madness. Reginald Gray had hardly dared approach him, and then only whispered a word or two.
Now the red flag waves softly in the hands of the starter as the three horses turn in their tracks. The bay becomes a little restless and breaks beyond the string. By the time he is brought back again, the black sidles in an ugly way against the fence. With his head arched, going gently up and down, champing his bit a little, Cliquot stands, the hand of his jockey moving back and forth under his mane. Now and then, he slightly lifts his off foot and paws the ground.
“Remarkable!” murmured Gray.