"Why, damn him," he said, "we'll lose him the first heat. I'll shut him out myself." "We will, sah, we will!" said Col. Troup. "But if that rattling contraption skeers my mare, I'll appeal to the National Association, sah. I'll appeal--sah," and he drove off up the stretch, hotter than his mare. And now the track was cleared--the grand stand hummed and buzzed with excitement. It was indeed the greatest joke ever played in the Tennessee Valley. Not that there was going to be any change in the race, not that the old preacher had any chance, driving as he did this bundle of ribs and ugliness, and hitched to such a cart--but that he dared try it at all, and against the swells of horsedom. There would be one heat of desperate fun and then-- A good-natured, spasmodic gulp of laughter ran clear through the grand-stand, and along with it, from excited groups, from the promenade, from the track and infield and stables, even, came such expressions as these: "Worth ten dollars to see it!" "Wouldn't take a hoss for the sight!" "If he _did_ happen to beat that trio of sports!" "Boss, it's gwinter to be a hoss race from wire to wire!" "Oh, pshaw! one heat of fun--they'll shut him out!" In heart, the sympathy of the crowd was all with the old preacher. The old man had a habit when keyed to high pitch, emotionally, of talking to himself. He seemed to regard himself as a third person, and this is the way he told it, heat by heat: "Fus' heat, Ben Butler--Now if we can manage to save our distance an' leave the flag a few yards, we'll be doin' mighty well. Long time since you stretched them ole muscles of yo's in a race--long time--an' they're tied up and sore. Ever' heat'll be a wuck out to you till you git hot. If I kin only stay in till you git hot--(_Clang--clang--clang_). That's the starter's bell. Yes--we'll score now--the fus' heat'll be our wuss. They've got it in fur us--they'll set the pace an' try to shet us out an', likely es not, do it. God he'p us--Shiloh--Cap'n Tom--it's only for them, Ben Butler--fur them. (_Clang!--Clang!_) Slow there--heh--heh--Steady--ah-h!" _Clang--clang-clang!_ vigorously. The starter was calling them back. They had scored down for the first time, but the hot-heads had been too fast for the old ambler. In their desire to shut him out, they rushed away like a whirlwind. The old pacer followed, rocking and rolling in his lazy way. He wiggled, shuffled, skipped, and when the strain told on the sore old muscles, he winced, and was left at the wire! The crowd jeered and roared with laughter. "He'll never get off!" "He's screwed there--fetch a screw driver!" "Pad his head, he'll fall on it nex'!" "Go back, gentlemen, go back," shouted the starter, "and try again. The old pacer was on a break"--_Clang--clang--clang!_ and he jerked his bell vigorously.