The Washington times., 1902-03-30

sitting on stool. There are a score or
more of these men on stools and they
seem to be the objective point of all the
men in the vast crowd. Your man finally
reaches a stool, hurriedly scans a pro-
gramme that the proprietor of the stool
holds in his hand; looks nervously around
him, hesitates, backs away, and is car
ried along in the moving stream OF hu-
manity toward another man on a stool.
There comes the regular" you saw
studying the dope in the street car.
There is an air of business about him.
He elbows and shoveS his way past you,
treads on your toes, but does not stop
to apologize; very rude. you think. He.
too, is bent upon reaching an occupant of
a stool. He thrusts bill into the stool
mans hand the latter cries out, 40 to .,
Can't Lose; No. 3d." an assistant jots
down memorandum on sheet; the
regular rushes off, while TIE man on
the stool grasps another bill.
The man who is doing a hundred-yard
dash in ten seconds. and who has just
brushed past you? He is commissioner.
man who makes bets for owners or
trainers or heavy bettors When he gets
within few feet of the layer of odds he
mods his head, mutters the name of
horse; the "bookie'' responds .All right"
That is betting on the nod. You may
wonder why the commissioner has SO
many men following in his wake. They
are anxious TO know what he purposes to
back; they, too, are wooing the tickle
goddess.
Such is the scene in the betting pavilion.
II you turn your steps the other way
you will come to the paddock. This is
the place where the horses are saddled
for the races; where the jockeys are
weighed in; where they mount their ami
mails, and where owners, trainers, stable
boys, and seekers for information congre-
gate.
Haunt of the "Tipster."
On your way to the paddock you may
have noticed here and there man closely
hugging the railing that surrounds the
track, intently watching horse which is
warming up He is rail Bird and
is trying to select winner
A scene of animation greets you in the
paddock. A dozen or more thoroughbreds
are walking round score more of
hox stalls grouped together in the centre.
On the arms of'the men leading them are
the numbers which the jockeys are to
wear during the race, and by which the
judges determine the winner, the second,
and the third horses. The horses are the
contestants which are to run in the com
ing race.
bell rings down in the judges stand:
the horses are led into the stalls; sad
dies are thrown over them. brides are
adjusted, girths are securely frightened,
and the horses are ready for the fray.
Presently bugle sounds clear on the
air. The jockeys file out of their room,
and take their places in the saddle, all
the while being gazed at curiously by the
crowd Of information Your
Jockeys face, however, is as immobile
as piece of marble. The patrol judge
bids them get ready; the trainers whisper
a parting word of instruction; the horses
line up and begin the march to the post
You may have seen a man here and
there engaged in an earnest whispered
conversation with a trainer, or owner. or
stable boy, and then rush maaly of to-
wards the betting ring. He has tip, or
he thinks he has.
Start Stirs the Blood.
The horses walk slowly up past the
grandstand, while femininity mutter
words of admiration and masculinity on
the lawn calculate, perhaps. He looks
fit" The horses turn at the judges
stand and gallop off to the starting post
There is a stiied hum of voices. while
hearts beat fast and faces wear an anx-
ious look.
The horses are at the post. The field
Of runners make pretty picture. fit for
an artist, as they champ at the bit and
paw the ground, while the gay-colored
silks of the jockeys simmer in the sun
light. There is apparent a constant
straining for advantage. The horses will
not line up, though the starter cries loud
ly and threatens fine or suspension of the
Jockeys. When everything looks favor
able for start a horse in the centre
wheels and a good send-off is spoiled.
Then there is more shifting and paving
and kicking; but at last the quick glance
of the starter catches them all in line
and in motion; he shouts Come on!'' the
gate flies up there rs a 'lunging of
bodies a laundering of heels, cloud of
dust. the starters little red flag swishes
through the air, and the horses are Off
A mad, swirling rush. a dash for posi-
tion, a constantly shifting Kaleidoscope of
color, and the race is on in earnest.
In the stand and on the lawn glasses
are quickly raised to the eyes. while
nerves become tense. Eyes stare. hands
are tightly clenched. faces are drawn, and
exclamations rise to the lips unconsci
ously.
First one and then another of the horses
in the mad. flying bunch shows in front.
The jockeys are bending low on their
horses necks: it is moving mass OF
rainbow-tinted dust. Now the horses
enter the stretch; there is a Strengthening
out; several are running head and head.
1t is impossible to tell which is in front.
1t seems TO be anyone's race.
Down the Stretch.
"Gallop wins" shouts a man in the
stand. mo. no." frantically exclaims a
woman clutching at her neighbor's arm,
Lose EN- gets the race,"
why, Can't Lose walks in remarks
the regular ITS a cinch'; didn't 1
tell you?" Just then a man standing on
a chair shouts cxcitedly, Look at Eat
emup."
The jumbled mass of color is coming
nearer and nearer; the jocks are hugging
their horses necks, whipping and slash
ing and squirting the heaving sides of the
noble animals, urging them for list
desperate effort. The pace Is terrific.
1t is beginning TO tell first one and tnen
another drops back. 1t is the survival of
the fttest. The race has narrowed down