“Odd brute that,” he sneered, “to put against horses that have won on The Plains of Abraham. But I suppose the _fun_ of the races will make up to you for your losses. Why, this is nothing but a Canadian scrub!” True shook himself in disgust. To be called a striding Canadian. A horse who travels with purposed exertion, while he glided over the ground with scarce an effort. A Canadian scrub, indeed, a horse whose thick nostrils speak of low birth and whose flat sides and thick hair seem made for much cold and beating; and _he_, with the blood of the South in his veins! It was too much for Evans. “This is no Canadian,” he contradicted, shortly; “this horse is a Thoroughbred.” The Coxcomb laughed derisively, and flicked his boot. “None the less, the brute would answer to the order ‘_Marches donc!_’… Not so, my friend?” He struck True on the side with his keen whip, making him spring forward. “What said I?” he scoffed with a shrug. “The _horse_ does not lie about his pedigree.” Ignoring the insulting inference, Evans quieted Morgan with a caress and cried: “For shame, sir! Would you have me strike _your_ horse thus?” But Master Knickerbocker had moved away, laughing insolently. The course was measured, the scratch drawn and Nathan Nye stood ready to drop the hat. Several of the men went to the finish-line to witness and testify to the result of the three races. The course faced the east, so that the eyes of the horses and their riders were turned from the sunset glow which was then illumining the world. The road was smooth, and a recent rain had laid the dust; the conditions were better than usual. The pungent odor of new-sawn lumber filled the air and the chirping of birds from the nearby forest made sweet music. One of the Ethan Allen horses walked briskly forward under his rider, while the Morgan joined him in the friendly way which was his natural manner towards all animals. They waited pleasantly, yet spiritedly, for the drop of the hat. When the signal was given they ran neck and neck for a short distance--then with a sudden and unexpected spurt the Morgan dashed in a length ahead. His friends cheered Morgan lustily; the other faction were too astonished to other than gasp slightly, and were silent. Evans himself was expressionless--if anything, he, as well as Morgan, looked a little bored at the easy victory, and cantered back to the starting point for the next race with a sort of indifference. The second was twin to the first. Morgan seemed just waking up, as he sprang forward perfunctorily at the finish, winning with ease. He moved as if he knew not fatigue, even after the hard day’s work. It was the Desert training of his ancestors within him, their marvellous staying qualities. When they returned the second time the Coxcomb was waiting, his restive horse trembling in anticipation of a victory. One or two false starts, and they were off.