Two of the gentlemen came up from the paddock. Colonel Snowden had the horse that was next to the favorite. They were now talking over the chances. “Well, what are you going to do? How do you stand?” his friends asked. “A good chance to win. I don't know what that new horse can do, of course; but I should not think he could beat Hurricane.” “Of course he cannot,” said Mr. Newby. “Ridden by a green country boy!” “He has some good points and has a fine pedigree.” Mr. Newby raised his eyebrows. “So has his rider; but pedigrees don't count in rides.” “I never could understand why blood should count in horses and not in men,” said Miss Ashland, placidly. “Oh, I hope he 'll win!” she exclaimed, turning her eager face and glancing back at the gentlemen over her shoulder. “Well, I like that!” laughed Colonel Snowden. “With all that money on the race! I thought you were backing Hurricane?” “Oh, but he hasn't anybody to back him,” she protested. “No; I sha 'nt back Hurricane. I shall back him.” “Which? The horse or the rider?” “The horse--no, both!” she declared, firmly. “And oh, papa,” she exclaimed, glancing back at him over her shoulder, “they say he wants to win to send his sister to school and to go to college himself.” “Well, I must say you seem to have learned a good deal about him for the time you had.” She nodded brightly. “That 's what the old colored man told a friend of mine.” “If he does n't go to college till he wins with that horse,” said Mr. Newby, “he is likely to find his education abbreviated.” “I shall back him, anyhow.” She settled herself in her seat. “Here, I 'll tell you what I will do. I will bet you he don't get a place,” said Mr. Newby. “How much? What is a 'place'?” she asked. It was explained to her. “How much--a hundred to one!” “No; not that!” “You 're learning,” laughed her friends. “There! they 're off. Here they come!” buzzed the crowd, as the flag at last fell, and they came up the field, a dozen in all, two in the lead, then a half-dozen together in a bunch, and two or three behind, one in the rear of all. Old Robin's heart dropped as the cry went up: “The countryman 's left. It 's yellow-jacket!” It was too far off for him to see clearly, but the laughter about him was enough. “That boy don't know how to ride. What did they put him in for?” they said. A minute later, however, the tone changed. The country boy was coming up, and was holding his horse in, too. The riders were settling themselves and spreading out, getting their horses in hand for the long gallop. In fact, the old trainer's last piece of advice to his young pupil was worthy of a Delphic track, “Don' let 'em lef you; but don't let 'em wind you. Don't git so far behind 't folks 'll think you 's ridin' in de next race; but save him for de last half-mile. You 'll have plenty o' room den to let him out, an' de track 's mighty heavy. Watch Hurricane an' Fightin' Creek. Keep nigh 'em, but save him, an' look out for de Liverpool.”