"Let him start, let the Hill-Billy start!" shouted the crowd, and then there was a tumult of hisses, groans and cat-calls. Then it was passed from mouth to mouth that it was the old Cottontown preacher, and the excitement grew intense. It was the most comical, most splendid joke ever played in the Valley. Travis was not popular, neither was the dignified Col. Troup. Up to this time the crowd had not cared who won the purse; nor had they cared which of the pretty trotters received the crown. It meant only a little more swagger and show and money to throw away. But here was something human, pathetic. Here was a touch of the stuff that made the grand-stand kin to the old man. The disreputable cart, the lifeless, blind old pacer, the home-made harness, the seediness of it all--the pathos. Here was the quaint old man, who, all his life, had given for others, here was the ex-overseer and the ex-trainer of the Travis stables, trying to win the purse from gentlemen. "Ten to one," said a prosperous looking man, as he looked quietly on--"the Bishop wants it for charity or another church. Like as not he knows of some poverty-stricken family he's going to feed." "If that's so," shouted two young fellows who were listening, and who were partisans of Flecker of Tennessee, "if that's the way of it, we'll go over and take a hand in seeing that he has fair play." They arose hastily, each shifting a pistol in his pocket, and butted through the crowd which was thronged around the Judge's stand, where the old man sat quietly smiling from his cart, and Travis and Troup were talking earnestly. "Damned if I let Trombine start against such a combination as that, sah. I'll drive off the track now, sah--damned if I don't, sah!" But the two young men had spoken to big fat Flecker of Tennessee, and he arose in his sulky-seat and said: "Now, gentlemen, clear the track and let us race. We will let the old man start. Say, old man," he laughed, "you won't feel bad if we shut you out the fust heat, eh?" "No," smiled the Bishop--"an' I 'spec you will. Why, the old hoss ain't raced in ten years." "Oh, say, I thought you were going to say twenty," laughed Flecker. Some rowdy had crowded around the old cart and attempted to unscrew the axle tap. But some one reached over the head of the crowd and gripped him where his shoulder and arm met, and pulled him forward and twirled him around like a top. It was enough. It was ten minutes before he could lift up his arm at all; it felt dead. "Don't hurt nobody, Jack," whispered the old man, "be keerful." The crowd were for the old man. They still shouted--"Fair play, fair play--let him start," and they came thronging and crowding on the track. "Clear the track," cried the starting-judge to a deputy sheriff in charge--"I'll let him start." This set the crowd in a roar. "Square man," they yelled--"Square man!" Travis bit his lips and swore.