The first race was a half-mile dash for running horses. There were four horses entered for it and three of the four jockeys wore regular jockey outfits, with loose blouses and top boots and long-peaked caps; but the fourth jockey was an imp-black stable boy, wearing a cotton shirt and the ruins of an old pair of pants. The brimless wreck of a straw hat was clamped down tight on his wool like a cup. He be-straddled a sweaty little red gelding named Flitterfoot, and Flitterfoot was the only local entry, and was an added starter, and a forlorn hope in the betting. While these four running horses were dancing a fretful schottische round at the half-mile post, and the starter, old man Thad Jacobson, was bellowing at the riders and slashing a black-snake whip round the shins of their impatient mounts, a slim black figure wormed a way under the arms and past the short ribs of a few belated betters yet lingering about the bookmaker's block. This intruder handled himself so deftly and so nimbly as not to jostle by one hair's breadth the dignity of any white gentleman there present, yet was steadily making progress all the while and in ample time getting down a certain sum of money on Flitterfoot to win at odds. “Ain't that your nigger boy Jeff?” inquired Doctor Lake of Judge Priest, as the new comer, still boring deftly, emerged from the group and with a last muttered “Scuse me, boss--please, suh--scuse me!” darted away toward the head of the stretch, where others of his race were draping themselves over the top rail of the fence in black festoons. “Yes, I suppose 'tis--probably,” said Judge Priest in that high singsong of his. “That black scoundrel of mine is liable to be everywhere--except when you want him, and then he's not anywhere. That must be Jeff, I reckin.” And the old judge chuckled indulgently in appreciation of Jeff's manifold talents. During the parade of the veterans that day Judge Priest, as commandant of the camp, had led the march just behind the fife and drums and just ahead of the color-bearer carrying the silken flag; and all the way out from town Jeff, his manservant, valet, and guardian, had marched a pace to his right. Jeff's own private and personal convictions--convictions which no white man would ever know by word of mouth from Jeff anyhow-- were not with the late cause which those elderly men in gray represented. Jeff's political feelings, if any such he had, would be sure to lean away from them; but it was a chance to march with music--and Jeff had marched, his head up and his feet cutting scallops and double-shuffles in the dust.