The men and boys began to collect, and he could hardly get beyond the gate leading into the field.
“Mr. Emory, keep that crowd back,” he cried again, “or I’ll not answer for the consequences!” and Neil, pushing here and there, assisted by the police, dispersed the restless, curious stragglers of the race-course.
Peleg threw his arm around his half-exhausted companion and hurried him through the heat and dust to the shade, where an old buggy stood.
The track swarmed with people, and a hundred voices took up the cry:
“Cliquot wins! A thousand to one on Cliquot! Going, going, going, gone!”
“Pool, sir? Pool, sir, on Cliquot?” and the air was rent with the wild cries, oaths and bets on the stallion.
Thirty minutes, and again the bell sounded.
“Stop that accursed band!” yelled a big man, with five hundred on Bay Thomas, as that nag shot by in a mad bolt around the track.
A laugh from fifty mouths greeted him, as he went through the dust roaring like a mad lion.
The bell again, and once more the horses move beyond the flag, all behaving pretty well. Cliquot’s rider is a little pale, but sitting quite at ease in his saddle. The blacksmith walks to the starting point, and, now and then, he and the boy speak to each other. This time there is no trouble about the start and they are off in a moment.