He forbade contradiction by raising an imperious hand.  Marianne was so exasperated that she looked to Mrs. Corson in the pinch, but that old lady was smiling dimly behind her glasses; she seemed to be studying the smoky gorges of the Eagles, so Marianne wisely deferred her answer and listened to that unique voice which rises from a crowd of men and women when horses are about to race.  There is no fellow to the sound.  The voice of the last-chance better is the deep and mournful burden; the steady rattle of comment is the body of it; and the edge of the noise is the calling of those who are confident with “inside dope.”  Marianne, listening, thought that the sound in Glosterville was very much like the sound in Belmont.  The difference was in the volume alone.  The hosses were now lining up for the start, it was with a touch of malice that Marianne said:  “I suppose that’s one of your range types?  That faded old chestnut just walking up to get in line?”

Corson started to answer and then rubbed his eyes to look again.

It was Alcatraz plodding towards the line of starters, his languid hoofs rousing a wisp of dust at every step.  He went with head depressed, his sullen; hopeless ears laid back.  On his back sat Manuel Cordova, resplendent in sky-blue, tight-fitting jacket.  Yet he rode the spiritless chestnut with both hands, his body canted forward a little, his whole attitude one of desperate alertness.  There was something so ludicrous in the contrast between the hair-trigger nervousness of the Mexican and the drowsy unconcern of the stallion that a murmur of laughter rose from the crowd about the starting line and drifted across the field.

“I suppose you’ll say that long hair is good to keep him warm in winter,” went on the girl sarcastically.  “As far as legs are concerned, he seems to have about as much as the longest of the mares.”

Corson shook his head in depreciation.

“You never can tell what a fool Mexican will do.  Most like he’s riding in this race to show off his jacket, not because he has any hope of winning.  That hoss ain’t any type of range—­”

“Perhaps you think it’s a thoroughbred?” asked Marianne.

Corson sighed, feeling that he was cornered.

“Raised on the range, all right,” he admitted.  “But you’ll find freak hosses anywhere.  And that chestnut is just a plug.”

“And yet,” ventured Marianne, “it seems to me that the horse has some points.”

This remark drew a glance of scorn from the whole Corson family.  What would they think, she wondered, if they knew that her hopes centered on this very stallion?  Silence had spread over the field.  The whisper of Corson seemed loud.  “Look how still the range hosses stand.  They know what’s ahead.  And look at them fool bays prance!”

The Coles horses were dancing eagerly, twisting from side to side at the post.

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Corson.  “What a vicious brute!”