“As I said above, that was the meanest thing Jim did that day.
“Well, we harvested our winter oats two hours afterwards, when Jim entered his pacer in the free-for-all down the boulevard. Some few had caught on, but I found enough that hadn’t to cover Jim’s hundred I held and another for myself, and when the old farmer and the pacer beat the gang further than any of them cared to tell about afterwards, as I said before, it brought on a blizzard that cooled all the racing enthusiasm in that town up to the time I left, and many of them hadn’t discovered then that they had been racing green horses and two-thirty roadsters against one of the best known drivers in the East, up behind a pacer who started ten times last year, won eight first moneys and two seconds, and took a mark close down to 2:10.”
“I see from the paper,” he said, as he pulled out a local paper, “that they are racing there on the snow path this week, but I’ll bet my winter overcoat they have taken the precaution to bar all hayseeds and curby-legged pacers in the country.”
OUR PAGE OF POETS
THE LYNCHERS.
A thousand yelling savages proclaim
Their swift advance. What voice or hand can tame
The maddened multitude? With curses loud,
With guns and halters armed, the frenzied crowd