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“Especially the bone!” observed Mr. Newby, in a low tone.

“I shall back him,” she said. She held in her hand a rose which had broken off its stem. She took it and stuck it in a loop in the sheet.

Just then the first bell sounded, and the hostlers began to get the horses ready to appear before the judges, while the riders went off to weigh in, and the crowd began to stream back to the stands. As the group turned away, the young owner took the rose from the loop and, with a shy look around, hid it in the breast of his jacket. His eye followed the white hat till it passed out of the paddock gate.

“Do you really think that horse can win?” asked Mr. Newby of the young lady, as they strolled along. “Because I tell you he can’t. I thought you were a sport. Why, look at his hocks! He won’t get over the Liverpool.”

“I shall back him,” said she. “What is the Liverpool?”

“Here, I ‘ll tell you what I ‘ll do,” said Mr. Newby. “I ‘ll bet you two to one he does n’t win the race.” He winked at the others.

“Very well. I don’t approve of betting, but I ‘ll do it this time just to punish you.”

“Now I ‘ll bet you two to one he does n’t come in second–that boy won’t get him over the water-jump.”

“Very well–no, I don’t want to take odds. I ‘ll bet you even. I must be a sport.”

The other protested, while the rest of the party looked on with amusement.

“Oh, well, if you insist,” said Mr. Newby. “What shall it be?”

“A box of the best—-“

“Of the best cigars!”

“No; I don’t smoke. Candy.”

“Oh, you expect to win!”

“Of course. Who ever saw such bone and muscle!”

They reached their places in the box, smiling and bowing to their acquaintances about them.

As soon as they were settled, the young lady picked up a paper lying by, and began to search diligently for the name of her horse.

“Ah, here it is!” She began to read. It was a column of forecasts. “Tell me, please, what does ‘100 to 1’ mean!”

“That the horse is selling at that.”

“Selling? What does that meant”

There was an explosion of laughter from those about her. They explained.

“Oh, what cheats men are!” she exclaimed with conviction.

“Come, I ‘ll let you off if you ask quarter,” laughed Mr. Newby. “No horse can jump with knees as big as that.”

“Never! I ‘ll back him to the end,” she declared. “Oh, there he is now! There is his yellow jacket,” she added, as the buzz grew louder about them, and glasses were levelled at the horses as they filed by spirited and springy on their way to the starting-point some furlongs down the course. No one else appeared to be looking at the big brown. But his rider was scanning the boxes till his eye rested on a big hat with a white feather; then he sat up very straight.

Two of the gentlemen came up from the paddock. Colonel Snowden had the horse that was next to the favorite. They were now talking over the chances.

“Well, what are you going to do? How do you stand?” his friends asked.

“A good chance to win. I don’t know what that new horse can do, of course; but I should not think he could beat Hurricane.”

“Of course he cannot,” said Mr. Newby. “Ridden by a green country boy!”

“He has some good points and has a fine pedigree.”

Mr. Newby raised his eyebrows. “So has his rider; but pedigrees don’t count in rides.”

“I never could understand why blood should count in horses and not in men,” said Miss Ashland, placidly. “Oh, I hope he ‘ll win!” she exclaimed, turning her eager face and glancing back at the gentlemen over her shoulder.

“Well, I like that!” laughed Colonel Snowden. “With all that money on the race! I thought you were backing Hurricane?”