Looking about him helplessly, his black garments contrasting strangely with the bright costumes of the women, and the “horsy” garb of the male portion, his eyes rested on the figure of a man near him. He was a big, burly fellow, with a good-natured Irish face, the most noticeable feature of which was a huge red mustache. Certainly here was one who could help him, for the man’s attire was as typical of his calling as the bishop’s own. A glittering diamond pin in the shape of a horse’s head was in the cravat, a horseshoe watch charm rested on the double-breasted waistcoat of “loud” pattern. Chalmers’ eyes caught those of the turf gambler as the latter lifted them, after making an apparently satisfactory calculation on the back of his program. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said the bishop. “I--er--as you possibly may guess, I am not well versed in racing matters. Would you please enable me to understand a few things? I believe a jockey named Nowell----” he paused, interrogatively. “Nowell is it, Blaisdell’s crack jock, ye are askin’ about, now, father?” inquired the man, with an expression of mild surprise. Evidently he mistook the bishop for a priest. “Yes. Somebody said--I understood he was to ride in the Derby to-day,” continued the bishop, anxiously. “I see ye ain’t used to racin’ at all, at all, now, father,” laughed the man, good-humoredly. “If ye were, sir, ye would have seen his name on the official jockey board over beyant. Do ye see it now, father? The numbers have been up so long they’ll be takin’ them down shortly. Over beyant, father.” The bishop’s eyes followed the outstretched finger across the track to where he saw opposite “No. 1” on the board the name “Nowell” in large letters, with other numbers and names below it. “Let me show ye, father,” said the man, taking the program and turning over the leaves rapidly. “There ye are--foorth race, the Derby--No. 1, Ixion. That’s the horse Nowell rides. It’s No. 1 on the board, an’ I’m hopin’ he’ll be No. 1 at the finish.” “Do you attend the races regularly?” asked the bishop, hesitatingly. “That’s about the size av it, father,” acknowledged the other. “I’m what ye call a ‘regular.’ I don’t suppose annywan is known better about the tracks in this section than Miles Halloran. I play the ponies for a livin’. Mebbe ye’d be scoldin’ me, now, father?” he inquired, indulgently. The question was ignored. “Perhaps you can tell me about this jockey Nowell?” the bishop asked again. “Do you know him?” “Little Nowell?” repeated the man. “I reckon not. Nobody knows him but Blaisdell and the horses. They say his own father don’t know him. But that don’t keep me from playin’ his mounts, father. I’ve been backin’ him ever since he started to ride. That’s why I’m all to the good. I don’t know him, but sure I can tell ye av him, an’ nothin’ but good. He’s as straight as a string.” “Do you mean that he rides sitting straight up in the saddle?” inquired the bishop, misunderstanding.