“We haven’t had any yet,” cried a new voice in the stand—­the wrathful voice of Trustee Silas Wallace, of the horse department.  After quite a struggle he had managed to tip President Kitchen off the trap-door and had ascended.  “We never will have any, either,” he shouted, shaking his finger under the president’s nose.  “What did I tell you would happen?  We’ll be reported to the National Association.”

The crowd across the way roared and barked like beasts of prey, and the insistent and shrill staccato of Marengo Todd sounded over all.

Cap’n Sproul deliberately and with much decision took off his silk hat and held it toward the Honorable Bickford.

“I resign!” he said.  “I was shanghaied into this thing against my good judgment, and it’s come out just as I expected it would.  It ain’t no place for me, and I resign!”

“It isn’t any place for gentlemen,” agreed Mr. Bickford, ignoring the proffered hat.  “We seem to be thrown in among some very vulgar people,” he went on, his ear out for Marengo’s taunts, his eyes boring Trustee Wallace.  “It is not at all as I supposed it would be.  You cannot expect us to be patrons of the races under these circumstances, Mr. Kitchen.  You will please call our barouche.  We leave in great displeasure.”

“I don’t give a red hoorah how you leave, so long as you leave before you’ve busted up this fair—­trot programmy and all,” retorted Mr. Wallace, bridling.  “I’ve got three men waitin’ ready to come into this stand.  They don’t wear plug hats, but they know the diff’runce between a dog-fight and a hoss-trot.”

“Take this!  I don’t want it no more,” insisted the Cap’n, stung by this repeated reference to plug hats.  He poked the head-gear at Mr. Bickford.  But that gentleman brushed past him, stumped down the stairs, and strode into the stretch before the stand, loudly calling for the carriage.

Marengo Todd, accepting his sudden and defiant appearance as gage of battle, precipitately withdrew, leaping the fence and disappearing under the grand-stand.

It was five minutes or more ere the barouche appeared, Mr. Parrott requiring to be coaxed by President Kitchen to haul the three disgraced dignitaries away.  He seemed to sniff a mob sentiment that might damage his vehicle.

Mr. Bickford’s two associates followed him from the stand, the Cap’n abashed and carrying the tall hat behind his back, Hiram Look muttering disgusted profanity under his long mustache.

“I want to say, gentlemen,” cried Mr. Bickford, utilizing the interval of waiting to address the throng about him, “that you have no right to blame my dog.  He is a valuable animal and a great family pet, and he only did what it is his nature to do.”

Marengo Todd was edging back into the crowd, his coat off and something wrapped in the garment.

“Blame no creature for that which it is his nature to do,” said Mr. Bickford.  “He was attacked first, and he used the weapons nature provided.”