Denver Bay leads.
He minces along with a knowing air, as though thoroughly realizing his importance.
The rest of the field follows in single file, their glossy hides shining in the sun like satin.
The horses take their places in a long, irregular line.
Clouds of dust follow several false breaks and hang over the starting point.
The signal comes, and down the stretch of track come the bright shirts of the jockeys.
Denver Bay gives a sudden plunge or two, jumps off something like two lengths, and goes sailing away in the lead.[{59}]
There is a grand shout of voices and a shuffling of nervous feet, and shrill cries of “Denver Bay! Denver Bay!”
They sweep past the stand, past the long rows of excited faces, around the turn and away.
Then there is silence for a moment, but only for a moment.