Occasionally he scruffed his forearm over his head as though fondling something that hurt him.

To start those eleven rank brutes on that cow-lane of a track would have tested the resources and language of a professional.  When they swung at the foot of the stretch and came scoring for the first time it was a mix-up that excited the vociferous derision of the crowd.  Nearly every horse was off his stride, the drivers sawing at the bits.

Marengo Todd had drawn the pole, but by delaying, in order to blast the Honorable J. Percival with his glances, he was not down to turn with the others, and now came pelting a dozen lengths behind, howling like a Modoc.

Some railbird satirist near the wire bawled “Go!” as the unspeakable riot swept past in dust-clouds.  The Honorable Bickford had early possessed himself of the bell-cord as his inalienable privilege.  He did not ring the bell to call the field back.  He merely leaned far out, clutching the cord, endeavoring to get his eye on the man who had shouted “Go!” He declaimed above the uproar that the man who would do such a thing as that was no gentleman, and declared that he should certainly have a constable arrest the next man who interfered with his duties.

In the mean time President Kitchen was frantically calling to him to ring the gong.  The horses kept going, for a driver takes no chances of losing a heat by coming back to ask questions.  It was different in the case of Marengo Todd, driver of the pole-horse, and entitled to “protection.”  He pulled “Maria M.” to a snorting halt under the wire and poured forth the vials of his artistic profanity in a way that piqued Cap’n Sproul’s professional interest, he having heard more or less eminent efforts in his days of seafaring.

Lashed in this manner, the Honorable J. Percival Bickford began retort of a nature that reminded his fellow-townsmen that he was “Jabe” Bickford, of Smyrna, before he was donor of public benefits and libraries.

The grimness of Cap’n Sproul’s face relaxed a little.  He forgot even the incubus of the plug hat.  He nudged Hiram.

“I didn’t know he had it in him,” he whispered.  “I was afraid he was jest a dude and northin’ else.”

In this instance the dog Hector seemed to know his master’s voice, and realized that something untoward was occurring.  He came bounding out from under the stand and frisked backward toward the centre of the track in order to get a square look at his lord.  In this blind progress he bumped against the nervous legs of “Maria M.”  She promptly expressed her opinion of the Bickford family and its attaches by rattling the ribs of Hector by a swift poke with her hoof.

The dog barked one astonished yap of indignation and came back with a snap that started the crimson on “Maria’s” fetlock.  She kicked him between the eyes this time—­a blow that floored him.  The next instant “Maria M.” was away, Todd vainly struggling with the reins and trailing the last of his remarks over his shoulder.  The dog was no quitter.  He appeared to have the noble blood of which his master had boasted.  After a dizzy stagger, he shot away after his assailant—­a cloud of dust with a core of dog.