"There's nothing to beat it, really," exclaimed Gay with some of her old enthusiasm, for she honestly thought a trotter or pacer going his fastest, a far greater example of the poetry of motion than a racehorse. "But do go and find out if that poor fellow is very much hurt. It was a bad day for you when you came out, my little man," she remarked to herself as Rensslaer departed--"first to be caught, then to 'foul' and half-kill your rival"--for soon she saw a sad little procession winding away, and Rensslaer returned to tell her that the driver's injuries were very serious, and that he was on his way to a local hospital. This damped Gay's spirits. She thought of Chris, began to think that she brought bad luck, and even her excellent prospects for the next race did not cheer her, though in the event her expectations were not justified. The start was bad, and Gay's pacer went to a break, losing probably fifty yards. Miss Letty brought the field along for the first half at a merry gait, and Old Joker drew up to her, while Gay's horse was a long way behind. In the last quarter of a mile he stepped a terrific gait, and in spite of so much ground to make up, he looked to have a chance, but one hundred yards from the finish he went to a break, and Old Joker gained the verdict. Winner's gait per mile, 2.20, as Gay saw by the stop-watch on her wrist that Rensslaer had secured for her (similar to those used by the judge and starters), which by pressure on a button, registers the exact number of seconds in which a race is won, also the time taken by the second horse. Suddenly, as Gay watched her man place a cooler, with her monogram in the corner, over the horse and sulky, completely covering both, a great distaste, disgust even, for her surroundings seized her. All the bubbling joy that had attended her new pursuit right up to the time of winning the Gold Vase, was completely quenched in her, and Chris's indignant protests against Mackrell's encouraging her in so unsuitable a pursuit rang in her ears, as she moved about with Rensslaer, snapshotted here, stared out of countenance there, though with nothing worse than a tentative remark occasionally addressed to her by Trotting habitués, who regarded her probably as one of themselves. "Better luck next time, miss," smirked one obviously public-house gentleman, but Rensslaer did not resent the freedom as Mackrell on her account would have clone. She had always been quick to note that he evinced no distaste when claimed in acquaintance by common persons in the crowd, who seemed to look up to him with almost supernatural admiration, and once again Gay admired the simplicity of the man, the entire absence of "side" that distinguished him, in whatever company he found himself. Luncheon was taken on the coach, and Gay's second race, in which Maudie T. was successful, coming on soon after, it was comparatively early when Tom Bulteel headed his bays for town.