“Yes, marm, By-Jo.”

“By what?”

“By Diamond,” replied Rinaldo, glibly, “outer Cap Wilson’s old Sally.  She was by——­”

“Mis’ Root didn’t catch the name right,” interrupted Mandy.  “It’s By-Jo, Mis’ Root—­that’s French.”

“Mercy me, ain’t that nice—­quite toney.  I hope he’ll win if Mister Bobo’s horse don’t.”

“Nal,” whispered Mandy, “you’ve not been betting against Comet, have you?”

“That’s what I have, Mandy.  I’ve got my hull stack o’ chips on this yere half-mile dash.”

“But, Nal, Comet will win sure.  Grandfather’s crazy about the colt.  He says he can’t lose no-way.”

“That’s all right,” said Nal.  “I’m glad he feels so well about it.  Set his heart on winnin’, eh?  That’s good.  Say, I guess I’ll sit right here and see the race.  It’s handy to the judges’ stand, and the horses are all on the track.”

In fact, for some time the runners had been walking backwards and forwards, and were now grouped together near the starter.  Mr. Bobo was in the timer’s box, chuckling satanically.  Fifteen hundred dollars, according to his own computation, were already added to a plethoric bank account.

“Yer feelin’ well, Mister Bobo,” said a bystander.

“I’m feelin’ mighty well,” he replied, “never was feelin’ better, never.  There’s a heap o’ fools in this yere world, but I ain’t responsible for their mistakes—­not much,” and he cackled loudly.

After the usual annoying delay the horses were dismissed with an excellent start.  Bijou jumped immediately to the front, and Nal threw his hat high into the air.

“Ain’t she a cyclone?” he shouted, standing upon the wagon seat and waving his stop-watch.

“Look at her, I say, look at her!”

The people in his vicinity stared, smiled, and finally cheered.  Most of them knew Nal and liked him well.

“Yer mare is winnin’,” yelled a granger.

“You bet she is,” retorted Mr. Roberts.  “See her!  Ain’t she takin’ the kinks out of her speed?  Ain’t that a clip?  Sit still, ye fool,” he cried lustily, apostrophising the boy who was riding; “if ye git a move on ye I’ll kill ye.  Oh, my lord! if she ain’t a-goin’ to distance them!  Yes, sir, she’s a shuttin’ ’em out.  Damn it—­I ain’t a swearin’, Mis’ Root—­damn it, I say, she’s a shuttin’ ’em out! She’s done it!!  The race is won!!!”

He jumped from the wagon and plunged into the crowd, which respectfully made way for him.

* * * * *

“I’ve somethin’ to tell ye, Mandy,” said Mr. Roberts, some ten months later.  I feel kind o’ mean, too.  But I done it for you; for love o’ you, Mandy.”

“Yes, Nal; what is it?”

They had been married a fortnight.

“Ye remember when the old man had the fit in the timer’s box?  Well, that knocked me galley-west.  I felt a reg’ler murderer.  But when he’d braced up, an began makin’ himself hateful over our weddin’, I felt glad that I’d done what I done.”