As he tightened the girth for the last time, Hardshell Gaines whispered to Pete, his jockey: “Take a toe holt and a tooth holt, Pete. Joe’ll git you off a-runnin’, and I got a pill in him that’d blow up a bank. It’s timed to go off about the half-mile if you ain’t too long at the post. All you got to do is sit still and hold on.” Humming, he went to the book of his friend and wagered two dollars that Sword of Gideon would win. He was still humming when he went down to the rail to watch the horses start, and the hymn he hummed was, “Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise.” Out by the barrier a perspiring starter was beseeching, swearing, threatening, and scolding, while a row of horses milled and maneuvered for position. In the midst of the mêlée of milling horses, Joe, the assistant starter, a buggy whip in one hand, sweated and swore as he appeared to be striving to make Sword of Gideon line up with the other horses. Out of the corner of his eye Joe watched the starter for the telltale movement which revealed the second that the starter would spring the barrier. When that movement came Joe held the bridle bit of Sword of Gideon, and before the barrier flashed he threw the horse’s head around, leaped aside, and slashed him sharply across the quarters with the whip. Sword of Gideon, stung into forgetfulness of fear, leaped forward. The barrier flashed past his nose and he leaped into full stride, two full lengths in the lead of the field before the others were under way. Big Jim Long, his florid face mottled, hurled his chewed cigar against the ground and swore viciously. Sword of Gideon, running like a wild horse, opened up a gap of eight lengths between himself and the nearest pursuer in the first eighth of a mile. In vain Attorney Jackson’s jockey, remembering his instructions, spurred and urged his mount, striving to catch the flying leader and set the pace. At the half Attorney Jackson dropped back, beaten and out of it. Mildred Rogers’ rider, seeing the conspiracy going wrong, made a desperate effort to overtake the flying Sword. The nitroglycerine pellet had acted and the aged horse was running as he had run when he seemed destined to be champion. Length by length he increased his lead over the staggering, wabbling field, and tore down the stretch fifteen lengths ahead of Patsy Frewen. Big Jim Long, his heavy jaws sagging, his face mottled red and white, his big, soft hands clenched, watched until the horses were within a few yards of the finish. Then he turned and walked rapidly across through the edge of the betting ring toward the exit. At the back of the betting ring he met Hardshell Gaines moving toward the paddock to greet the victorious Sword of Gideon. Big Jim’s pent up wrath exploded. “You--and your blank blanked spavined hound!” he raged. “You blanked old fool, if it hadn’t been for you--”