“Mister President, trustees, and judges, I’ve got here a dockyment signed by seventeen—­”

President Kitchen knew that Marengo Todd had been running his bow-legs off all the forenoon securing signatures to a petition of protest that had been inspired by Trustee Silas Wallace.  The president pushed away the hand that brandished the paper.

“What do you take this for—­an afternoon readin’-circle?” he demanded.  “If you’re goin’ to start your hoss in this thirty-four class you want to get harnessed.  We’re here to trot hosses, not to peruse dockyments.”

“This ’ere ain’t no pome on spring,” yelled Marengo, banging the dust out of the floor with his whip-butt and courageously coming up one step on the stairs.  “It’s a protest, signed by seventeen drivers, and says if you start these events with them three old sofy pillers, there, stuffed into plug hats, for judges, we’ll take this thing clear up to the Nayshunal ’Sociation and show up this fair management.  There, chaw on that!”

“Why, bless my soul!” chirruped the Honorable Bickford, “this man seems very much excited.  You’ll have to run away, my good man!  We’re very busy up here, and have no time to subscribe to any papers.”

Mr. Bickford evidently believed that this was one of the daily “touches” to which he had become accustomed.

“Don’t ye talk to me like I was one of your salaried spittoon-cleaners,” squealed Marengo, emboldened by the hoarse and encouraging whispers of Trustee Wallace in the dim depths below.  The name that much repetition by Wallace had made familiar slipped out before he had time for second thought.  “I knowed ye, Kittle-belly Bickford, when ye wore patches on your pants bigger’n dinner-plates and—­”

President Kitchen let loose the hasp that held up the drop-door and fairly “pegged” Mr. Todd out of sight.  He grinned apologetically at a furious Mr. Bickford.

“Order the marshal to call the hosses for the thirty-four trot, Honer’ble,” he directed, anxious to give the starter something to do to take his mind off present matters.

Mr. Bickford obeyed, finding this exercise of authority a partial sop to his wounded feelings.

Cap’n Sproul pendulumed dispiritedly to and fro in the little enclosure, gloomily and obstinately waiting for the disaster that his seaman’s sense of impending trouble scented.  Hiram Look was frankly and joyously enjoying a scene that revived his old circus memories.

Eleven starters finally appeared, mostly green horses.  The drivers were sullen and resentful.  Marengo Todd was up behind a Gothic ruin that he called “Maria M.”  When he jogged past the judges’ stand to get position, elbows on his knees and shoulders hunched up, the glare that he levelled on Bickford from under his scoop visor was absolutely demoniac.  The mutter of his denunciation could be heard above the yells of the fakers and the squawk of penny whistles.