Here they came upon the track where the trainer was examining a new sulky. “Bring out ‘Bridal Bells,’ Mr. Noble. I want to show the gentleman some of our standard-breds.” The trainer’s lean face lighted with native pride. With little shrill neighs “Bridal Bells” came prancing afield; she seemed impatient to dash headlong through the morning’s electric chill. Pride was not prouder than the arch of her chest. “What a beauty, what a poem!” Frost’s enthusiasm seemed an inspiration to the Major. “She is marvellously well favored, sir; comes from the ‘Beautiful Bells’ family, that is, without a doubt, one of the richest and most remarkable known. If you want a good racer she is your chance. Racing blood speaks in the sharp, thin crest, the quick, intelligent ear, the fine flatbone and clean line of limb.” Frost looked in her mouth, put on a grave face, as though he understood “horseology.” The Major gave her age, record, pedigree and price so fast that the other found it difficult to keep looking wise and listen at the same time. The trainer then brought out another, a brown horse with tan muzzle and flanks. “Here, sir, is ‘Baron Wilkes’; thus far he has proven an extremely worthy son of a great sire, the peerless ‘George Wilkes.’ He was bred in unsurpassed lines, is 15½ hands high, and at two years old took a record of 2:34¼.” “Ah! he is a handsome individual; look what admirable legs and feet,” exclaimed the guest. “And a race horse all over. But here comes my ideal,” he added, with pride, as across the sward pranced a solid bay without any white; black markings extending above his knees and hocks. A horse of finish and symmetrical build, well-balanced and adjusted in every member. The one prevailing make-up was power--power in every line and muscle. Forehead exceedingly broad and full, and a windpipe flaring, trumpet like, at the throttle. “Now I will show you a record-breaker,” the while he patted him affectionately. “This is ‘Kremlin,’ unquestionably the fastest trotter, except illustrious ‘Alix.’ Under ordinary exercise his disposition is very gentle, there being an independent air of quiet nonchalance that is peculiarly his own. Harnessing or unharnessing of colts, or the proximity of mares, doesn’t disturb his serene composure. But roused into action his mental energies seem to glow at white heat. He is all life, a veritable equine incarnation of force, energy, determination--a horse that ‘would meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the gong,’ and, I might add, beat them out at the wire. His gait, as may be judged from his speed, is the poetry of motion; no waste action, but elastic, quick, true. He is a natural trotting machine. His body is propelled straight as an air line, and his legs move with the precision of perfect mechanism.” “What shoe does he carry?” asked the New Yorker. “Ten ounces in front, five behind.”