"On the other horses are boys who have starved until they are wisps with only hands for the reins of a horse and knees to keep on his back. They have stirrups so short that they seem to be floating above the racers. But on the back of the horse on which we are betting there is only an old, old man, sitting heavily."
"His name! His name!" David cried.
"Elijah! And the horse is Jurith!"
"No, no! Withdraw the bets! She is old."
"They are off! The gray mare is not trained for the start. She is left standing far behind."
"Ah!" David groaned.
"Fifty thousand people laughing at the old gray mare left at the post!"
"I see it! I hear it!"
"She's too short in front; too high behind. She's a joke horse. And see the picture horses! Down the back stretch! The fifty thousand have forgotten the gray, even to laugh at her. The pack drives into the home stretch. There's a straight road to the finish. They straighten out. They get their feet. They're off for the wire!"
The voice of Connor had risen to a shrill cry. "But look! Look! There's a streak of gray coming around the turn. It's the mare! It's old Jurith!"