promptly in the rear, and daylight steadily widens between him and the last horse. As the field comes thundering down the homestretch the spanking roan well in the lead, Dashaway is at least a quarter of a mile behind, blowing like a whale, and the jockey is whipping furiously, his arm flying around like a windmill. The Colonel is fairly dancing with rage.
Colonel Berkeley is not the man to lose a race to the Hibbses with composure, and Petrarch's condolences, reminiscences, prophecies and deductions were not of a consolatory character.
"Ole Marse, I done tole you, Dashaway warn't fitten ter run, at de very startment. He been a mighty good horse, but he c'yarn snuffle de battle fum befo', an' say Hay! hay! like de horse in de Bible no mo'."
"Shut up, sir—shut up. Religion and horse racing don't mix," roars the Colonel.
"Naw suh, dey doan! When de horse racin' folks is burnin' in de lake full er brimstone an' sulphur, de 'ligious folks will be rastlin' wid de golden harps—" Petrarch's sermon is cut ruthlessly short by Colonel Berkeley suddenly catching sight of the unfortunate jockey in a vain attempt to get out of the way. But his day of reckoning had come. Petrarch had collared him, and the Colonel proceeded to give him what he called a dressing-down, liberally punctuated with flourishes of a bamboo cane.
"Didn't I tell you," he was shouting to the
