It was a mile trot, four times around the track. The first round was practically a dead heat. The second almost the same. She grew anxious. So, evidently, did Tom Doane. “Thunder!” he exclaimed, disgustedly. “That Rattler is doing as well as our horse. Yes, a little better, if anything. What’s the matter with Gifford? Why don’t he whip her up? He’s going to lose the inside place in a minute. Go on, Claribel! Shake her up, Varunas! Give it to her!” Frank Cahoon was yelling similar advice. Bob Griffin turned impatiently. “Keep your hair on, Tom,” he ordered. “Gifford knows what he’s doing. Watch him. He’s been holding her in every foot of the way so far. Don’t worry,” he whispered in Esther’s ear. “He’ll let her out when the time comes. We’ll beat ’em at the finish.” Esther was close to tears. “Oh, we must! We _must_!” she gasped. “We will.... Hi! there she goes! That’s the stuff! Good girl! _Look_ at her leave him!” She was leaving him. Varunas had suddenly loosened his grip on the reins. Bending forward until his nose was close to Claribel’s flying tail he was urging her on. His shrill yells could be heard even above the shouts of the crowd. “Go it, you, Claribel!” he was shrieking. “Lay down to it now! _Now_ they begin to know they’re licked! Hi! hi! hi! Lay down to it, girl!” The Townsend mare was well to the fore as they shot by at the end of the third turn and swung into the last lap. Rattler’s nose was scarce abreast the wheel of his rival’s sulky. Varunas never stopped yelling for an instant, but as every one else was doing the same thing it was harder to understand what he said. Esther was, although she did not know it, standing up in the dog-cart. Bob Griffin was standing beside her. Josiah Smalley, the youth entrusted with the care of the Townsend span, had forgotten his trust and was jumping up and down in the rear of the crowd. The trotters passed the other end of the Circle and were swinging into the stretch. The finish was a matter of seconds. And then something happened. What it was Esther did not then know, but that it was serious there was no doubt, for the whole aspect of affairs changed in a flash. From Claribel’s flank a black strip seemed to burst loose, to shoot into the air, to flap up and down. Her even trot faltered, changed to a jerky gallop. The yells of triumph from the Harniss contingent changed also--to groans, howls of warning, profane exclamations. Rattler was no longer a length behind; he was almost on even terms with the mare. And then Varunas Gifford proved the stuff of which he was made. By main strength he pulled the frightened animal back into stride again. His whoops of triumph became soothing commands of encouragement. Claribel steadied, crept ahead once more, passed the line a winner--by not much, but a winner, nevertheless.