St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1891-11-26

beside her. The CalIfOTn1anS are
dropping back, dying hard. Eliza
beth and Blue Eyes are just behind.
And then, clinging so close to the
inner rail that his horses side seems
to scrape it, to lose not an inch of
space, is Old Folks.
Down the stretch they come, all
fighting. Off in front are Cleopatra
and Kathleen. The pace is killing
one, and the field are beginning to
falter. The mare alone is gaining.
AT last there is no longer day
light between her and the hindmost
horse. 1t is poor Tantrum, sorely
pressed And now she is leaving
Tantrum and is at Blue Eyes throat
latch. And now Blue Eyes is passed,
and she is at Elizabeth's saddle
skirts. And now Elizabeth is behind
her, and she is abreast of the Cali
fornians. There is an instant's hot,
sharp fight, and she has shaken
them off, and only Cleopatra and
Kathleen are left out there in front,
neck and neck, just five lengths away.
But five lengths! And that black
rascal Ike is still holding Cleopatra
back, with something up his sleeve.
Ten thousand eyes are upon the
mare. Ten thousand voices cheer
her onward. Can she close the gap?
Can she catch the leaders? Half the
Journey down the stretch is passed.
as they swing by the eighth pole, Ike
looks over his shoulders. He sees
Old Folks vengeful black face, just
two lengths behind him Heloosens
his last wrap and drives the spurs in
Deep Cleopatra darts away from
A moment more and the mare has
rushed by; and Kathleen is strug-
Cling in a ruck behind.
Ike is riding the race of his life.
His whole heart and soul are burn
ing up. He is lifting his mount
along; whispering to her; sparing
the whip with the wisdom of the
great jockey; helping her by knee
and hand and voice. But each time
he chances behind, he sees the hated
face of Old Folks, a little nearer.
They have reached the first of the
wall of faces that lines the track.
All about them is an ocean of
whirling sound. For the last time
Ike looks over his shoulder. The
final CLEAN of light between them
has gone. Without looking he can
see the mares head gaining steadily,
resistlessly. The head is at Cleo
patra's TANKS. 1t has reached her
painting breath against his cheek.
But swiftly the head passes the neck,
and only the width of another head
is between it and victory. And the
judges and the timers, with their
watches in their hands, silent and
solemn, are standing over the finish
line just twenty yards away. Only a
head between victory and defeat !!
All! Many's the race won and lost
by that fateful space.
Old Folks highly priced cap has
blown off in that wild fight down to
the stretch. His round, black head
is bent so low over his horses neck
that his face can only be seen in
| glimpses, as he urges the mare on
ward. One thing alone he knows.
Ike is so close to him, he can touch
him. The shouting of the thousands
is only dull, distant rumble. Can
he never pass that head rising and
falling there just before him? He is
gaining, but slowly, slowly. And
the distance is so terribly short.
The calm-faced men with the watches
in their hands are hardly dozen
rods away If they were only a
furlong further, or half a furlong
even. AS they pass the colonel not
ten feet from the judges stand, the
two heads are rising and falling to-
gether, not an inch of space in favor
of the one or the other.
The crucial moment has come.
Old Folks digs his knees deep into
the shoulders of the mare, catches
the reins with a grip like steel, and
inspiring the high-strung animal
beneath him with the fierce courage
that burns in his own little black
breast, with last desperate, des-
pairing effort, he fairly carries the
mare across the line winner by a
clear good head.
Out from the bowling thousands,
like one shot from a cannon, comes
Colonel Bill. With a bound he is
over the fence and off down the track
to the mare, his face purple from
much cheering. AS the colonel
springs toward her he sees Old Folks
with the reins still in his hand, sway
ing backwar and forward in his
saddle, his lips the color of ashes,
and his face all pinched with pain.
He barely reaches the mares head
when the boy pitches over into his
arms.
"What's the matter?" ask a
hundred voices as Bill, carving the
little bundle as tenderly as could a
mother, shoves his way through the
crowd to the secretary's office
''Nothing',' cries Bill fercely
swallowing a lump in his throat
Then, as his big red hand wanders
gently down the little leg to where
the left foot is dangling helplessly to
and fro, and he feels the edges of the
broken bones sticking out through
the skin, the tears gather so fast