“If he wins we’ll know he’s a ringer,” Joe replied complacently.  “We’ll register a protest at once.  Of course, the horse is royally bred, but he hasn’t been trained, he’s never been on a track before and even if he has speed, both early and late, he’ll probably be left at the post.  He’s carrying one hundred and eighteen pounds and a green cholo kid has the leg up.  No chance, I tell you.  Forget it.”

Don Mike, returning from the paddock after saddling Panchito and giving Allesandro his final instructions, sat majestically in his seat, but Father Dominic, Brother Anthony, Pablo and Carolina paid vociferous tribute to their favorite and the little lad who rode him.  Allesandro’s swarthy hands and face were sharply outlined against a plain white jockey suit; somebody had loaned him a pair of riding boots and a cap of red, white and blue silk.  This much had Don Mike sacrificed for convention, but not the willow switch.  Allesandro waved it at his master and his grandparents as he filed past.

Pablo stood up and roared in English:  “Kai!  Allesandro!  Eef you don’ win those race you grandfather hee’s goin’ cut you throat sure.  I look to you all the time, muchacho.  You keep the mind on the bus-i-ness.  You hear, Allesandro mio?”

Allesandro nodded, the crowd laughed and the horses went to the post.  They were at the post a minute, but got away to a perfect start.

“Sancho Panza leads on Panchito!” the book-maker, Joe, declared as the field swept past the grand-stand.  He was following the flying horses through his racing glasses.  “Quarter horse,” he informed his companion.  “Beat the gate like a shot out of a gun.  King Agrippa, the favorite, second by two lengths.  Sir Galahad third.  At the quarter!  Panchito leads by half a length, Sir Galahad second.  King Agrippa third!  At the half!  Sir Galahad first, Panchito second, King Agrippa third!  At the three-quarter pole!  King Agrippa first, Panchito second, Polly P. third.  Galahad’s out of it.  Polly P’s making her spurt, but she can’t last.  Into the stretch with Panchito on the rail and coming like he’d been sent for and delayed.  Oh, Lord, Jim, that’s a horse—­and we thought he was a goat!  Look at him come!  He’s an open length in front of Agrippa and the cholo hasn’t used his willow switch.  Jim, we’re sent to the cleaner’s—­”

It was a Mexican race-track, but the audience was American and it is the habit of Americans to cheer a winner, regardless of how they have bet their money.  A great sigh went up from the big holiday crowd.  Then, “Panchito!  Come on, you Panchito!  Come on, Agrippa!  Ride him, boy, ride him!” A long, hoarse howl that carried with it the hint of sobs.

At the paddock the gallant King Agrippa gave of the last and the best that was in him and closed the gap in a dozen furious jumps until, as the field swept past the grand-stand, Panchito and King Agrippa were for a few seconds on such even terms that a sudden hush fell on the race-mad crowd.  Would this be a dead heat?  Would this unknown Panchito, fresh from the cattle ranges, divide first money with the favorite?