The bell had already rung twice, and all the drivers and horses were thought to be in, and were preparing to score down, when a newcomer arrived, who attracted a good deal of attention. Instead of a sulky, he sat in a spider-framed, four-wheeled gentleman’s road cart, at least four seconds slow for a race like that. Instead of a cap he wore a soft felt hat, and in lieu of a jacket, a cutaway business suit. He nodded familiarly to the starting judge and paced his nervous-looking little filly up the stretch.
“Who is that coming into this race in that kind of a thing?” asked the old Colonel of a farmer near by—for the old man’s eyesight was failing him.
“Why, Colonel, don’t you know your own son? That’s Cap’n John Rutherford,” said the farmer.
“The devil you say!” shouted the excitable old gentleman. “Why, damn it, has John gone crazy?” and he jumped over a bench and rushed excitedly up the stretch to head off the driver of the little filly.
“In the name of heaven, John,” he shouted, “are you really going to drive in this race?”
Captain John nodded and smiled.
“And what’s that po’ little thing you’ve got there?”
“It’s Little Sister, father,” said Captain John good naturedly. “I’m just driving her to please the little girl. I want to see how she’ll act in company, anyway.”
The old Colonel was thunderstruck. “Why, you’re a fool,” he blurted out. “They’ll lose you both in this race. For heaven’s sake, John, get off the track and don’t disgrace old Betty and the farm this way. Po’ little no-’count thing,” he added, sympathetically, “it’ll kill ’er to go round there once!”
The Captain laughed. “It’s just for a little fun, father—all to please the baby. It’s her pet, you know. I’ll just trail them the first heat, and if she’s too soft I’ll pull out. But she’s better than you think,” he added indifferently. “I’ve been driving her a good bit of late.”