“Good Gad, sir, was ever a man so tormented by such a set of black rascals? Hold your tongue--don’t let me hear another word from you, not another word, sir.” The jockey, who takes the Colonel’s words at their full value, which Petrarch discounts liberally, begins to stutter with fright. “M--m--marster, ef I jes’ kin git Dashaway ’long wid de res’--” “Silence, sir,” shouts the Colonel, “and remember every word I tell you, or----” Colonel Berkeley’s appalling countenance and uplifted cane complete the rest. Dashaway is not only conspicuously the worst of the lot, but the most troublesome. Half a dozen good starts might be made but for Dashaway. At last the flag drops. “Go!” yells the starter, and the horses are off. Dashaway takes his place promptly in the rear, and daylight steadily widens between him and the last horse. As the field comes thundering down the homestretch the spanking roan well in the lead, Dashaway is at least a quarter of a mile behind, blowing like a whale, and the jockey is whipping furiously, his arm flying around like a windmill. The Colonel is fairly dancing with rage. Colonel Berkeley is not the man to lose a race to the Hibbses with composure, and Petrarch’s condolences, reminiscences, prophecies and deductions were not of a consolatory character. “Ole Marse, I done tole you, Dashaway warn’t fitten ter run, at de very startment. He been a mighty good horse, but he c’yarn snuffle de battle fum befo’, an’ say Hay! hay! like de horse in de Bible no mo’.” “Shut up, sir--shut up. Religion and horse racing don’t mix,” roars the Colonel. “Naw suh, dey doan! When de horse racin’ folks is burnin’ in de lake full er brimstone an’ sulphur, de ’ligious folks will be rastlin’ wid de golden harps--” Petrarch’s sermon is cut ruthlessly short by Colonel Berkeley suddenly catching sight of the unfortunate jockey in a vain attempt to get out of the way. But his day of reckoning had come. Petrarch had collared him, and the Colonel proceeded to give him what he called a dressing-down, liberally punctuated with flourishes of a bamboo cane. “Didn’t I tell you,” he was shouting to the unhappy youngster, “to make the running--_to make the running, hay_?” “M--m--marster, I ’clar to Gord, I thot’ Dashaway wuz gw’in’ to drap ’fo I git him to de half-mile pos’--” “_Drap_--you scoundrel, _drap_! The blood of Sir Henry _drap_! You confounded rascal, you pulled that horse,” etc., etc., etc. Mrs. Peyton laughed. “It does my heart good to hear Tom Berkeley raging like that. It reminds me that we are not all dead or changed, as it seems to me sometimes. Your father and I have had passages-at-arms in _my_ time, I can tell you, Olivia.”