He had the unmistakable air of authority as he stood over the jockey’s form, his uncased field glasses, with the case itself, dangling by his side. The others moved away, all but the bishop. The elderly man, to whom the others gave way, would have lifted the boy in his arms, but the bishop would not release his hold. “Pardon me, sir; let me have him,” said the gentleman, with something of austerity, as if hinting that the presence of a clergyman was more superfluous than necessary. “What he needs now most of all is prompt medical attention. He is my jockey.” “And he is my son, sir; my only child,” was the response of the kneeling, dark-garbed figure. He permitted the large man to lift the boy in his arms. As the ambulance drove sharply on the course, the large man, still clasping the jockey in his arms, looked hard at the anguished face. It was a brief but all-comprehensive glance. The next instant he had lifted a foot on the step, and with the assistance of the surgeon had deposited the insensible boy on the stretcher inside. “Drive direct to Fordham,” he commanded. “I will follow immediately.” Only then did he turn to the bishop. “I am William T. Blaisdell. You say the boy is your son? You are----?” His eyes roved over the other’s ministerial dress. “I am Bishop Chalmers, sir. This young man is my son, my only child,” he repeated, quietly. “How is it that his name is Nowell? He told me that was his right one?” said the owner, doubtingly. “It is his own middle name, and his mother’s maiden one,” was the low reply. “Come with me, bishop,” said Blaisdell, his face softening. “He is a son of whom any father might be proud. Let us hope his injuries are not serious. My automobile is outside here, and we will go direct to the hospital.” During the swift ride to the hospital, in the wake of the ambulance, Bishop Chalmers, as to a father confessor, unbosomed himself to the quiet, self-contained man beside him. When he had finished the recital, concluding with the remark that he had misjudged his son, and the two men had looked into one another’s eyes, the father saw that Blaisdell’s were filled with tears. “You have misjudged him sadly,” was Blaisdell’s reply. “No one in any capacity was ever truer to his trust than your son, bishop. “None ever lived a cleaner life, I know. He had offers innumerable to ride for men who would have paid him extra thousands for retainers. The methods of some on the turf are questionable. As in any other business, it depends altogether on the man. Your son preferred to ride only for me, because he knew that always my horses were ridden to win.” He was silent a little.