if our horse wins--odds of a hundred to one! And we wager. We
wager the value of all we have. We wager the value of the Garden of Eden
itself!"

"It is madness, Benjamin!"

"Look closer! See them at the post. There's the Admiral. There's
Fidgety--that tall chestnut. There's Glorious Polly--the little bay. The
greatest stake horses in the country. The race of the year. But the
horse we bet on, David, is a horse which none of the rest in that crowd
knows. It is a horse whose pedigree is not published. It is a small
horse, not more than fourteen-three. It stands perfectly still in the
midst of that crowd of nervous racers. On its back is an old man."

"But can the horse win? And who is the old man?"

"On the other horses are boys who have starved until they are wisps with
only hands for the reins of a horse and knees to keep on his back. They
have stirrups so short that they seem to be floating above the racers.
But on the back of the horse on which we are betting there is only an
old, old man, sitting heavily."

"His name! His name!" David cried.

"Elijah! And the horse is Jurith!"

"No, no! Withdraw the bets! She is old."

"They are off! The gray mare is not trained for the start. She is left
standing far behind."

"Ah!" David groaned.

"Fifty thousand people laughing at the old gray mare left at the post!"

"I see it! I hear it!"

"She's too short in front; too high behind. She's a joke horse. And see
the picture horses! Down the back stretch! The fifty thousand have
forgotten the gray, even to laugh at her. The pack drives into the home
stretch. There's a straight road to the finish. They straighten out.
They get their feet. They're off for the wire!"

The voice of Connor had risen to a shrill cry. "But look! Look! There's
a streak of gray coming around the turn. It's the mare! It's old
Jurith!"

"Jurith!"

"No awkwardness now! She spreads herself out and the posts disappear
beside her. She stretches down low and the rest come back to her. Fine
horses; they run well. But Jurith is a racing machine. She's on the hip
of the pack! Look at the old man all the thousand were laughing at. He
sits easily in the saddle. He has no whip. His reins are loose. And then
he uses the posts ahead of him. He leans over and speaks one word in the
ear of the gray mare.

"By the Lord, she was walking before; she was cantering! Now she runs!
Now she runs! And the fifty thousand are dumb, white. A solid wall of
faces c