"So please yo', young missus, hit bein' de bes' way, I'll staht 'im out roun' de track, 'n' let 'im lope easy-lak de fus' time roun'. Den, w'en he git soop'le up de fus' time roun', I gwi' _run 'im_! Yo' watch, young missus--I say I gwi' _run 'im_!" His wrinkled face irradiated with a great joy, Uncle Peter gathered up the reins and clenched the slender body with his knees. Gracefully and slowly The Prince swung around the oval enclosure, revealing such marvelous freedom from exertion, such spontaneity of action, that the faces of the two spectators standing in the shadow of the grandstand expressed almost amazement. John shifted his position a little nearer to Julia--he wanted so much to take her hand--and they watched in silence. The small figure on The Prince's back was humped over after the approved attitude of a jockey, and was rising and falling with each long undulation as though part of the animal he rode. The twain by the fence kept silent. Back on the grandstand was a small group of men, also watching The Prince. Julia's heart swelled with pride as her own brave colt came down the stretch towards them, gradually increasing his speed. He flashed past them with the lithe movements of one of the feline tribe, and as his nose was set to the next half mile he began to let himself out. His rider did not carry a whip. A slow slackening of the tightly-held reins was all that was necessary for quicker action. The Prince was born to run; to be held back was galling and unnatural. Rapidly and more rapidly his feet rose and fell, his movements as regular as the mechanism of a clock. Faster and faster he went, each prodigious leap increasing his momentum. When he swung into the home stretch the second time he was coming beautifully, and with a degree of swiftness which dumfounded both the girl and the man. Like an autumn leaf torn from a tree and whirled away on a cyclone, The Prince went by his group of friends. "Splendid!" muttered John Glenning, intense pleasure showing on his face. The girl turned to him with eyes which almost hurt. "Can Marston's entries _possibly_ beat him?" she implored, impetuously raising her hand to his arm, but refraining from laying it there. "Nothing that runs on four feet can beat him!" declared John, enthusiastically. "And I, like you, have seen horses run ever since I was big enough to know what a horse was. Ah! he is a noble animal--and how gracefully he runs! No wonder you love him, and I congratulate you on possessing him!"