The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1879-05-29
How Parole Won.

ALTHOUGH the winner OF the City
and Suburban by Parole is an old story,
the particulars of the race have not, un-
til within a few days, reached this
country. An American gentleman who
witnessed the victory of the brown geld
ing writes the following concise and in
telligent account of how the feat was
accomplished to the New York Herald:
The great race of the day was fourth
on the card, but it was at least three
quarters of an hour behind time, the
numbers and jockeys of the starters not
being hoisted on the new signal-board
until nearly half an hour after the time
fixed for the race. There was gener-
al move toward the paddock to see the
illustrious stranger Parole before the
bell rang for clearing the course, and,
as said before, many went back to
lay 5 to against the horse tina. had
queer hooks and rough coat. Parole
was the first horse to leave the pad
dock. He was saddled in the far cor
ner, Mr.. Rowland Robbins, who is act
ing as Mr.. Lorillard's agent, anxiously
watching the operation, and Archer,
the jockey, experimenting; then the
famous jockey slipped off his overcoat
and revealed the crimson jacket and
black banded sleeves of the colors which
have so suddenly leaped into celebrity
and which a mean-spirited cavalier in
one of the daily papers calls ''gaudy."
Parole was the first out of the paddock
and led the canter past the grand
stand, his magnificent, free action call
ing forth loud expressions of approval.
After one false start the bell rang, pro-
claiming that the eighteen runners
were of. You can see them yonder,
across the hill, in a clump against the
sky; presently the knot breaks up and
is strung out in a long line; the heads
and shoulders of the jockeys only are
visible as the horses pass the interven-
ing furze bushes, and then the whole
race bursts into sight. Now begins the
murmur of the crowd, increasing as
the bright jackets come nearer and
nearer. Down the hill, toward Tatten-
ham Corner, at a terrific pace. Where
is Parole?-not ahead, certainly. Three
horses are flying on in advance of all
others, and, as they sweep round the
corner into the straight run in, you can
make them out by the colors of their
riders-Knight of Burghley, Elf King,
Ridotto. The crimson Jacket is behind,
among the crowd. The murmur has
swelled into a roar: "Elf King winsp'
"Knight of Burghley wins!' Five
seconds more and both these suddenly
fall to the rear; they are beaten. Ri
dotto flashes to the front. He carries
the primrose and rose, the familiar col
ors of the popular Earl of Rosebery.
The roar now becomes a deafening
shout, s'Ridotto wins! Ridotto wins!!
Ridotto wins!!r' Now they are up to
the grand-stand close to the winning
post. "Where is Parolep Where is
Parole?'' shrieks a frenzied American
close to me. The horses sweep past
with laundering hoof, and now, before
the front of the grand-stand is passed,
Fred Archer is seen to let 60 the head
of the horse with the queer hooks and
the rough coat; in an instant Ridotto
is challenged; two strides more Parole
is level with him; the next moment Ri
dotto is smothered and the "gaudy''
colors flash past the post length
ahead. Twenty thousand pounds, if
you please, gentlemen, for the Ameri-
can stable.