Bred In The Bone Part 3

Among the crowd was a group of which the center was a young and very pretty girl. A simple white gown became her youth and freshness, and a large white hat with a long white ostrich-feather curled over the brim, shading her piquant face, added to her charm. A few pink roses fastened in her dress were the only color about her, except the roses in her cheeks. Most of those with her were men considerably older than herself.

They appeared, rather, friends of her father, Colonel Ashland, a distinguished-looking gentleman, known to turfmen as the owner of one of the best stock-farms in the country. He loved horses, but never talked of them. The young lady had just left school, and had never seen a steeplechase before, and her eagerness kept her companions in continual merriment. They were bantering her to bet, which she had as yet refused to do. All were deeply interested in the race. Indeed, two of the gentlemen with Colonel Ashland, Colonel Snowden and Mr. Galloper, had horses entered in the steeplechase; and as they examined the horses and made observations on them apt as a proverb, many of the bystanders strained their ears to catch their words, in hopes of getting a few last points on which to lay their bets.

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.

"h.e.l.lo! 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," a.s.serted 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.

"Especially the bone!" observed Mr. Newby, in a low tone.

"I shall back him," she said. She held in her hand a rose which had broken off its stem. She took it and stuck it in a loop in the sheet.

Just then the first bell sounded, and the hostlers began to get the horses ready to appear before the judges, while the riders went off to weigh in, and the crowd began to stream back to the stands. As the group turned away, the young owner took the rose from the loop and, with a shy look around, hid it in the breast of his jacket. His eye followed the white hat till it pa.s.sed out of the paddock gate.

"Do you really think that horse can win?" asked Mr. Newby of the young lady, as they strolled along. "Because I tell you he can't. I thought you were a sport. Why, look at his hocks! He won't get over the Liverpool."

"I shall back him," said she. "What is the Liverpool?"

"Here, I 'll tell you what I 'll do," said Mr. Newby. "I 'll bet you two to one he does n't win the race." He winked at the others.

"Very well. I don't approve of betting, but I 'll do it this time just to punish you."

"Now I 'll bet you two to one he does n't come in second--that boy won't get him over the water-jump."

"Very well--no, I don't want to take odds. I 'll bet you even. I must be a sport."

The other protested, while the rest of the party looked on with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Oh, well, if you insist," said Mr. Newby. "What shall it be?"

"A box of the best----"

"Of the best cigars!"

"No; I don't smoke. Candy."

"Oh, you expect to win!"

"Of course. Who ever saw such bone and muscle!"

They reached their places in the box, smiling and bowing to their acquaintances about them.