He was a rock upon which we immediately leaned.
"Everything all right?" I asked.
"Fine as silk," he said cheerfully, dropping into a seat. "You'll see
a race hoss run to-day! Here they come! She's in front!" And held to
a proud sedateness by their tiny riders, the contenders in the derby
filed through the paddock-gate.
At the head of these leashed falcons was a haughty, burnished,
slender-legged beauty--the proudest of them all. Her neck was curving
to the bit and she seemed to acknowledge with a gracious bow the roar
of acclamation that greeted her. She bore the number 1 upon her satin
side, and dropping my eyes to my program I read:
1. Tres Jolie--b. m. by Hamilton--dam Alberta. John C. Dillon,
Lexington, Kentucky. (Manders--blue and gold.)
"What sort of jockey is Manders?" I asked Blister.
"Good heady boy," was the reply.
"Virginia, oh, Virginia, isn't she a lamb?" gasped Mrs. Dillon.
"She's a stuck-up miss," said Miss Goodloe in an even tone, and I
almost hated her.
Number 2 I failed to see as they paraded past.
Number 3 was a gorgeous black, with eyes of fire, powerful in neck and
shoulders, and with a long driving hip. He was handsome as the devil
and awe-inspiring. Applause from the stands likewise greeted him,
though it was feeble to the howl that had met the favorite.
"There's the one we've got to beat," Blister stated.
"Good horse," said Judge Dillon quietly.
3. Rob Roy--bl. s. by Tempus Fugit--dam Marigold.
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