It was a great race, pluckily run, and every horse that came in for prize-money was of the broncho breed. Rolla Means's Jay Bird, which had made so strong a bid for the first place, had given out entirely about Greeley, some sixty miles from the finish. This was the last of the standard-bred horses to stay with the leaders. For speed, wind, and "bottom" the bronchos had come through the test splendidly. It was a great triumph for the game little broncho. Not pretty to look at, he is the best in the world for the conditions which prevail on the plains and in the Rockies. For other surroundings, perhaps, other types of horse are best, but for rough-and-ready going in all kinds of weather, with no feed except what it can pick up, the broncho asks odds of none. The Promotion of Petroff. +By Maxime Schottland, Doctor Juris.+ The amazing experience which befell a drunken old Russian bootmaker. "The events described occurred within my own cognizance while living in St. Petersburg," writes the author. "The episode could only have happened in Russia, unless there is any other country where the military caste is held in such veneration among civilians." It was the birthday of Petroff, the bootmaker, and he had been celebrating it in the customary manner. That is to say, he had consumed so much of his favourite beverage, vodka, that he had now become hopelessly and helplessly intoxicated. In fact, so drunk was Petroff that the proprietor of the St. Petersburg inn where he had been soaking steadily all the afternoon had just turned him out into the street on the sufficient grounds that he could neither drink nor purchase any more liquor. As poor Petroff staggered from the inhospitable doors of the inn, accompanied by the jeers of the remaining patrons, he fell into the arms of a couple of stalwart policemen. "Lemme go," he protested, as the detaining hands tightened on his wrists. "I tell you I'm not--hic--drunk! I'm all ri'--shober as a judge, in fact. I want to go home." The policemen laughed callously. "You're going to the station with us," remarked the senior, with a grin at his comrade. "A night in the cells will cool your head, old man. Now, then, come along. Go quietly, or it will be the worse for you." Petroff's legs swayed, and he would have fallen had not his escort, who were accustomed to dealing with such cases, held him tightly in their grasp.