“I don’t see why we shouldn’t shake hands, Esther,” he said. “We aren’t running any lawsuits of our own, and if you’re as sick of hearing about courts and decisions and lawyers as I am you never will run one. Grandfather doesn’t talk about anything else.... Come on, let’s forget it, _I_ say. Tell me who is going to win this race.” Just then the preliminary whistle sounded from the track below them. Frank Cahoon shouted in excitement. “They’re going to start,” he cried. “We can’t see a thing from here. I say, Esther, let us climb up there with you, will you? Cap’n Townsend won’t mind and he isn’t here, anyway. Come on, boys!” He started to mount to the seat, but Griffin was nearest and blocked the way. “Wait till you are invited,” he protested. “How about it, Esther? May we?” She hesitated. “Why--why, yes--I guess so,” she faltered. He did not wait for more, but scrambled to the seat beside her. Frank Cahoon and Tom Doane stood upon the hubs of the wheels and clung to the rail of the dog-cart. The two trotters--or their drivers--were jockeying for position at the start. Varunas was crouched in the sulky seat, his short legs looking more like barrel hoops than ever as each half-circled one of Claribel’s glistening flanks. His face was puckered until it looked like, so Bob Griffin whispered in Esther’s ear, a last year’s seed potato. Seth Emmons, behind the Baker entry, looked far less anxious. His cap was jauntily askew and he was confidently smiling. There was no judges’ stand at the Circle and, of course, no bell to signal starts and finishes. A whistle took its place and now it sounded once more. The racers shot by. They were off to a good start at the very first trial--almost a miracle in a trotting race. The crowd set up a shout. Every one pushed and jostled to see better. Esther leaned forward breathlessly. Prior to her arrival at the Circle she had not been greatly interested in the race. Foster Townsend’s penchant for fast horses had been one of the points in his disfavor which her mother had so often stressed. “He will spend a thousand dollars any time on a horse,” Eunice used to say, bitterly, “but he could let his own brother die a pauper.” Reliance, also, had never approved of what she called “horse jockeyin’.” Esther had accompanied her uncle that afternoon because he seemed to wish her to do so, but she had been secretly ashamed of the whole affair. It seemed so “cheap,” so undignified--so, yes, almost immoral. Since their arrival, stared at by every one, the only non-masculine in the whole assemblage, this feeling had deepened. She devoutly wished she had not come. As to who won the match, that was a matter of complete indifference to her--she did not care at all. Now, all at once, she found herself caring a great deal. She wanted Claribel to win. Her eyes shone, her hands clasped and unclasped, she bent forward to watch the flying sulkies. She was as excited and partisan as the rest.