Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse, but this race was three thousand! Three thousand! It would buy a farm. It would buy thirty mules, and twice that many steers. It would make a family independent for life. And to-day it was given to see which one, of three rich men, owned the best horse. No wonder that everybody for miles around was there. Sturdy farmers with fat daughters, jaded wives, and lusty sons who stepped awkwardly on everything on the promenade, and in trying to get off stepped on themselves. They went about, with broad, strong, stooping shoulders, and short coats that sagged in the middle, dropping under-jaws, and eyes that were kindly and shrewd. The town people were better dressed and fed than the country people, and but only half way in fashion between the city and country, yet knowing it not. The infield around the judges' stand, and in front of the grand-stand, was thronged with surreys and buggies, and filled with ladies and their beaux. A ripple of excitement had gone up when Richard Travis drove up in a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns and alive with merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmore was supposed to be on the driver's box with the owner, she was not there. Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding--Trumps, and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's mare--Trombine--had her partisans who were also vociferous. But Travis's entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse. Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spun merrily around the track, and Col. Troup joined him with Trombine, and the audience watched the three trotters warm up and shouted or applauded each as it spun past the grand-stand. Then the starting-judge held up a silk bag in the center of the wire. It held three thousand dollars in gold, and it swung around and then settled, to a shining, shimmering silken sack, swaying the wire as it flashed in the sun. The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers, being gentlemen, were heedless of rules and drove on around still warming up. The starting-judge was about to clang again--this time more positively--when there appeared at the draw-gate a new comer, the sight of whose horse and appointments set the grand-stand into a wild roar of mingled laughter and applause. As he drove demurely on the track, he lifted quaintly and stiffly his old hat and smiled. He was followed by the village blacksmith, whose very looks told that they meant business and were out for blood. The audience did not like the looks of this blacksmith--he was too stern for the fun they were having. But they recognized the shambling creature who followed him as Bud Billings, and they shouted with laughter when they saw he had a sponge and bucket! "Bud Billings a swipe!"