“Oh, it may be,” said the young girl, turning her eyes on him with a little flash. She saw that the old darkey had caught the words.
“What Mr. Johnston is it, uncle?” she asked, kindly, with a step forward.
“Mr. Theod'ric Johnston, madam.” He spoke with pride.
“What! Colonel Theodoric Johnston? Is he living still?” asked Colonel Ashland. “I thought he—How is he?”
“Oh, nor, suh! He 's dead. He died about three years ago. Dis gent'man is the gran'son—one o' my young masters. I was the fust pusson ever put him on a hoss.”
“Can he ride?”
“Kin he ride! You wait an' see him,” laughed the old man. “He ought to be able to ride! Ken a bud fly? Heah he now.”
He turned as the young owner, brown and tanned, and hardly more than a boy, came up through the crowd. He, like his horse, had been carefully groomed, and through his sun tan he bore a look of distinction. He was dressed for the race, but wore a coat over his faded silk jacket. As he turned and found Robin talking to a lady, his cap came off instinctively. The men looked at him scrutinizingly.
“Are you Colonel Theodoric Johnston's grandson?” enquired Colonel Snowden. “He used to have some fine horses.”
“Yes, sir.” His eye stole to the horse that was just beside him, and the color mounted to his cheek.