Here and there and everywhere were the piccaninnies from Woodlawn, the Layson place, crying the virtues of the mare they worshipped and her owner whom they each and everyone adored, boasting of the wagers they had made, strutting in the consciousness that ere the moment for the great race came “Unc” Neb would gather them together to add zest to the occasion with their brazen instruments and singing.  The “Whangdoodles” were the envy of every colored lad in town who was not of their high elect, and created, about noon, a great diversion upon one of the main streets, by gathering, when they were quite certain that their leader could by no means get at them, and singing on a corner for more coppers to be wagered on Queen Bess.  The shower of coin which soon rewarded their smooth, well-trained harmonies, burned holes in their pockets, too, until it was invested in the only things which, on this day, the lads thought worth the purchasing—­tickets on the race in which the wondrous mare would run.

Through the gay crowd old Neb was wandering, disconsolate, burdened with the melancholy news of the defection of the miserable jockey, looking, everywhere, for Miss Alathea Layson, but without success.  He stopped upon a corner, weary of the search and of the woe which weighed him down.

“Marse Frank,” he muttered, “say I war to tell Miss ’Lethe de bad news; but he didn’t tell me how to find a lady out shoppin’.  Needle in a haystack ain’t nawthin’!  Reckon ‘bout de bes’ dat I kin do is stand heah on dis cohnuh an’ cotch huh when she comes back to de hotel.”

He stood there for fully fifteen minutes, peering in an utter desolation of woe, at every passing face, but finding nowhere that one which he sought.  Then, at a distance, he saw the Colonel coming.  The expression on the horseman’s face amazed him and filled him with an instant hope that something had turned up to rob the situation of the horror which had darkened it, for him, ever since he had discovered that the jockey had disgraced himself.

“Dar come Marse Cunnel,” he exclaimed, in his astonishment, “a-lookin’ mighty happy!  Dat ain’t right, now; dat ain’t right, unduh de succumstances.”

He hurried to the Colonel, who, instead of seeming sorrowful, discouraged, wroth, beamed at him with a genial eye.

“What’s the matter, Neb?” he asked.  “You look like a funeral!”

“Dat’s de way I feel, suh; wid no jockey fo’ Queen Bess an’ Marse Frank good as ruined.”

“Neb,” said the Colonel, coolly, “you don’t mean to be a liar, but you are one.”

“What?” cried the darkey in delight.  “Oh Marse Cunnel, call me anyt’ing ef tain’t so about de mare!”

“Of course it isn’t,” said the Colonel happily.  “I have found a jockey, Neb; a jockey.”

“Praise de Lawd!” cried the old negro.

“One of the best,” the Colonel went on, gaily.  “Just come in from the—­from the east.  I engaged him at once, so you get word to Frank.  In five minutes we’ll be on our way out to the track.”