I had witnessed many races in the past and been a part of many racing crowds but never one like this. These people were Kentuckians. The thoroughbred was part of their lives and their traditions. Through him many made their bread. Over the fairest of all their fair acres he ran, and save for their wives and children they loved him best of all. Once each year for many years they had come from all parts of the smiling bluegrass country to watch this struggle between the satin-coated lords of speed that determined which was king. This journey was like a pilgrimage, and worship was in their shining eyes, as tier on tier I scanned their eager faces. And now three things happened. A bugle called, and called again. The crowd grew deathly still. And Mrs. Dillon, in a voice that reminded me of a frightened child, asked: "Where is Blister?" "He'll be here," said Judge Dillon, patting her hand. And even as a megaphone bellowed: "_We are now ready for the thirty-ninth renewal of the Kentucky Derby_!" Blister squeezed through the crowd to the door of the box. He was a rock upon which we immediately leaned. "Everything all right?" I asked. "Fine as silk," he said cheerfully, dropping into a seat. "You'll see a race hoss run to-day! Here they come! She's in front!" And held to a proud sedateness by their tiny riders, the contenders in the derby filed through the paddock-gate. At the head of these leashed falcons was a haughty, burnished, slender-legged beauty--the proudest of them all. Her neck was curving to the bit and she seemed to acknowledge with a gracious bow the roar of acclamation that greeted her. She bore the number 1 upon her satin side, and dropping my eyes to my program I read: 1. Tres Jolie--b. m. by Hamilton--dam Alberta. John C. Dillon, Lexington, Kentucky. (Manders--blue and gold.) "What sort of jockey is Manders?" I asked Blister. "Good heady boy," was the reply. "Virginia, oh, Virginia, isn't she a lamb?" gasped Mrs. Dillon. "She's a stuck-up miss," said Miss Goodloe in an even tone, and I almost hated her. Number 2 I failed to see as they paraded past. Number 3 was a gorgeous black, with eyes of fire, powerful in neck and shoulders, and with a long driving hip. He was handsome as the devil and awe-inspiring. Applause from the stands likewise greeted him, though it was feeble to the howl that had met the favorite. "There's the one we've got to beat," Blister stated. "Good horse," said Judge Dillon quietly. 3. Rob Roy--bl. s. by Tempus Fugit--dam Marigold. Henry L. Whitley, New York City. (Dawson--green and white.) I read. I followed him with my eyes and wished him somewhere else. He looked so overpowering--he and the millions behind him. . . . At last, a quarter of a mile away, they halted in a gorgeous shifting group. And the taut elastic webbing of the barrier that was to hold them from their flight a little longer, was stretched before them.