FullReads

Hurricane, a medium-sized bay, was next to the favorite; but Swallow, a big-boned sorrel, was on his form going up in the betting, and Mr. Galloper was in fine spirits. He was bantering his friend for odds that his big chestnut with the cherry colors would not beat the favorite.

Presently in the round came, led by an elderly negro, whose face wore a look portentous of mystery, a big horse covered with a sheet. A set of clean legs appeared below the sheet, and the head set on the long, muscular neck was fine enough for a model.

“What horse is that?” asked one of the gentlemen. It was the same question that many were asking as the horse walked with a long, easy swing, as quiet, yet as much at home, as if he were in his own stable-yard.

“Hello! that must be the new entry–‘J. D.,'” said Colonel Snowden, pushing forward to get a good look at him.

“Whose horse is this, Robin?” enquired Colonel Ashland.

The old fellow touched his hat.

“Dis is Mr. Johnstone hoss, suh.” He spoke with pride.

“Not a very distinguished name,” laughed one of the others, Mr. Newby, a youngish man dressed in the latest race-course style. He wore bits and stirrups as pins and fobs, owned a few horses, and “talked horse” continually.

Old Robin sniffed disdainfully.

“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.

“And he was a fine man. The turf lost one of its best ornaments when he retired.” Colonel Ashland was the speaker.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” His cap was in his hand, his words and manner were respectful, but when he spoke he looked the other in the eyes, and his eyes, though shy, were clear and calm.

“We were just admiring your horse,” said the young lady, graciously.

He turned and looked at her with the color flashing up in his tanned cheeks.

“Thank you. I am glad if he meets with your approval.” He ended his formal little speech with a quaint, slow bow. “I wish he were worthier of it.”

“Oh, I am sure he is,” she said, politely. “At least, you have our good wishes.” Her eye fell on one of her companions. “Has n’t he, Mr. Newby?”

The latter only looked at the younger man and grunted.

“Well, at least you have mine,” she said, with an air of bravado.

“Thank you. I ‘ll try to deserve them.”

“Dat young lady knows a hoss,” asserted old Robin, triumphantly. “Jes look at him, dyah. What bone an’ muscle!” He raised the sheet and waved his dusky hand towards his charge.

“Yes, that ‘s what I say. Such bone and muscle!” she repeated, with pretended gravity.