“But—but I can't bet against The Rogue. It would not be loyal.”
Mrs. Calvert laughed softly.
“There are exceptions, dear.” In a low aside she added: “Haven't you that much faith in the name of Garrison? There, I know you have. I would be ashamed to tell you how much the major and I have up on that name. And you know I never bet, as a rule. It is very wrong.”
And so Sue, the blood in her cheeks, handed all her available cash to Drake to place on the name of Garrison. She would pretend it was the original. Just pretend.
“Here they come,” yelled Drake, echoed by the rippling shout of the crowd.
The girl rose, white-faced; striving to pick out the blue and gold of the Desha stable.
And here they came, the thirteen starters; thirteen finished examples of God and man's handicraft. Speed, endurance, skill, nerve, grit—all were there. Horse and rider trained to the second. Bone, muscle, sinew, class. And foremost of the string came Swallow, the favorite, Red McGloin, confidently smiling, sitting with the conscious ease of the idol who has carried off the past year's Brooklyn Handicap.
Good horses there were; good and true. There were Black Knight and Scapegrace, Rightful and Happy Lad, Bean Eater and Emetic—the latter the great sprinter who was bracketed with Swallow on the book-maker's sheets. Mares, fillies, geldings—every offering of horse-flesh above three years. All striving for the glory and honor of winning this great sprint handicap. The monetary value was the lesser virtue. Eight thousand dollars for the first horse; fifteen hundred for the second; five hundred for the third. All striving to be at least placed within the money—placed for the honor and glory and standing.
Last of all came The Rogue, black, lean, dangerous. Trained for the fight of his life from muzzle to clean-cut hoofs. Those hoofs had been cared for more carefully than the hands of any queen; packed every day in the soft, velvety red clay brought all the way from the Potomac River.
Garrison, in the blue and gold of the Desha stable, his mouth drawn across his face like a taut wire, sat hunched high on The Rogue's neck. He looked as lean and dangerous as his mount. His seat was recognized instantly, before even his face could be discerned.