ervation. Red,
with the hunger of the long-denied, with the unrestricted appetite of
the intellectually low, had not discriminated. And he had suffered. His
trainer had watched him carefully, but youth must have its fling, and
youth had flung farther than watching wisdom reckoned.

Red had not gone back. He was young yet. But the first flush of his
manhood had gone; the cream had been stolen. His nerve was just a
little less than it had been; his eye and hand a little less steady;
his judgment a little less sound; his initiative, daring, a little less
paramount. And races have been won and lost, and will be won and lost,
when that "little Less" is the deciding breath that tips the scale.

But he had no misgivings. Was he not the idol? Was he not up on Swallow,
the favorite? Swallow, with the odds--two to one--on. He knew Garrison
was to ride The Rogue. What did that matter? The Rogue was ten to one
against. The Rogue was a fluke horse. Garrison was a has-been. The track
says a has-been can never come back. Of course Garrison had been to the
dogs during the past year--what down-and-out jockey has not gone
there? And if Drake had transferred him to Desha, it was a case of good
riddance. Drake was famous for his eccentric humor. But he was a sound
judge of horse-flesh. No doubt he knew what a small chance Speedaway
had against Swallow, and he had scratched advisedly; playing the Morgan
entry instead.

In the grand stand sat three people wearing a blue and gold ribbon--the
Desha colors. Occasionally they were reinforced by a big man, who
circulated between them and the paddock. The latter was Jimmie Drake.
The others were "Cottonton," as the turfman called them. They were Major
and Mrs. Calvert and Sue Desha.

Colonel Desha was not there. He was eating his heart out back home. The
nerve he had been living on had suddenly snapped at the eleventh hour.
He was denied watching the race he had paid so much in every way to
enter. The doctors had forbidden his leaving. His heart could not stand
the excitement; his constitution could not meet the long journey North.
And so alone, propped up in bed, he waited; waited, counting off each
minute; more excited, wrought up, than if he had been at the track.

It had been arranged that in the event of The Rogue winning, the good
news should be telegraphed to the colonel the moment the gelding flashed
past the judges' stand. He had insisted on that and on his daughter
being present. So