title: The sport of kings : racing stories
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CLAY Author of^^What Will the World Say?'' ‘‘Only a Womans" “Some Little of the Angel Still Lefty " “Uncle Phily" and “Frank Logan, ” “ The happiness of any life is the proper perfection of that being ; and hence, as the perfection of beings differ, so do their felicities.” — P lato. BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 835 Broadway, New York BRANCH OFFICES: WASHINGTON, BALTIMORE INDIANAPOLIS. NORFOLK. COPYEIGHT, 1912, By Mrs. John M. Clay CCU3l4:ip This Little Volume Is respectfully inscribed to Lovers op the Thoroughbred Horse, The only true aristocrat, “His royal blood flowing in his veins with pristine pureness after the passing of centuries, He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted: neither turneth he back from the sword.” J 5 'i 1 % I 4 t ) 1 I I 1 \ t •s '1 J , ■ i I * \ i V I » J i t i t } V' 1 CONTENTS L Who Rode La Sylphide?. 7 \ II. Why There Was No Sermon at Mount Gilead 23 III. The Bishop’s Daughter IV. Honors Are Easy 46 V. The Mexican Empire Steeplechase 61' VI. My Kingdom Is Not Of This World 70 WHO RODE LA SYLPHIDE? I. A STORY OF THE LEXINGTON RACE COURSE. Near the Phoenix Hotel, more than twenty years ago, two men chanced to meet. They were “Old Sports,” so designated; for while disconnected with the respectable, legitimate turf, they earned a pre- carious livelihood by doing business on lines — not al- ways commendable — incidental to turf matters: and perhaps no other calling fixes its impress with such unerring certainty. It is not the gorgeous waistcoat and flashy neck- tie emblazoned with a golden horse shoe. Nor yet the gleaming diamond on the left-hand fourth finger so much as the facial expression engendered by con- stantly recurring alternations of intensified hopes and fears — the elation with winning, and the dejection of losing. They shook hands, and reciprocally asked: “How is times?” Fortune had been kind to both, and they said so; but the inmost soul of each man was bur- dened with a tormenting mystery. With a single ex- ception there had been no turf secret that they had not been able to probe to the very bottom. This ex- 7 THE SPORT OF KINGS ception was the occasion of humiliating sorrow, and indicated, as they feared, failing powers — hence, the anxious enquiry : “Has it been found out yit who rid La Sylphide?” The answer was delivered slowly, reluctantly: “Not as I have heard on for dead certain; but there is some that lets on that they suspicion it mought have been a woman.” “ ’Twarn’t no woman. I seed him tolerable dost when old Mat fetched him outen the weighin’ room. He was eenmost as black as a nigger, and he was a puny chap, and looked half-dead with the breast com- plaint, chokin’, coughin’ and sneezin’ alarmin.’ I had right smart money on the mare, and she bein’, as every body knows, a difficult mount, I was tore up in my mind considerable about her jock. So me and some other fellows tried to crowd in to git near enough to size him up, but old Mat let fly at us the worsts’ language I ever hearn — he’s got a moughty rough aige to his tongue ; and what surprised me was the sugerry way he spoke to that thar boy — so onerary lookin’ too — and lifted him up to the saddle jest as keerful.” The exceeding beauty of a Kentucky stock farm cannot be adequately described when the trees are in the graceful foliage of early summer, the glowing sun, in generous profusion, pouring down the warmth of his golden light all over the living sheen of the luxuriant blue-grass. And beneath the azure sky fresh and fragrant are the breezes wafted over sweet- est flowers. The butterflies dance and glance, mak- 8 THE SPORT OF KINGS ing a gleam of tangled colors as they come and go, flashing hither and thither, or settling to feed on the rich hearts of blooming plants. Within the ten counties distinctively the “Blue Grass Region,” there was no lovelier estate than the one over which Jack Chetwyn is conducting his blue- eyed, new-made wife toward the training stable to exhibit to her, as he proudly said: “The most beau- tiful creature on earth — ^save only you ma mieJ*' Assured of the sympathy from the new partner in the firm, he continued : “With the paternal acres I in- herited the race stock, and have always had my fair share of fliers, and I have one now that leads them all. But she has the drawback of an uncontrollable temper, and she is full of such freaks as are past finding out. And she has in her time caused bitter sorrow to many a gallant plunger ; though all the while when we were in New York, so gaily fluttering away our honeymoon, I had repeated letters from my trainer saying that she had turned over a new leaf, and doing as well as heart could wish. So well that he had entered her in a mile-and-quarter handi- cap, and had backed her for every cent he could raise. As a rule, I do not bet on my horses, but catching the infection from Davis, who is rarely over-sanguine, I sent on a large commission, and, dear” — he continued rather sheepishly — “that’s not all — I did so want to buy for you that lot of dia- monds you admired at Tiffany’s — ^but the price was too steep for my means. However, the great news about the mare so exhilarated me that I gave my I. 0. U. for them.” 9 THE SPORT OF KINGS “Oh, Jack,” she said reproachfully, and almost in tears, “I really did not care for the diamonds so very much, and if I did, it was only a passing fancy. Now should the mare not win I shall feel like a horrid wretch.” “Don’t worry, dear; La Sylphide — is not that a pretty name.'* — will certainly win.” His tone car- ried conviction, she felt reassured, she believed in her Jack. And it seemed to her that his admission about the diamonds was very magnanimous, and then and there she resolved to be on even terms with him in open-heartedness. 10 THE SPORT OF KINGS For a kind word he will put forth his best efforts. And forsaking his kind he will give all, willing to labor, to suffer, to die.” Suddenly the panegyric ceased a panoramic view of the stable environments presented. “Hi! yi! What’s going on.? There seems to be a shindy.” Jack Chetwyn’s blood almost froze in his veins seeing what he saw. A beautiful bay mare, held with difficulty by two stout stablemen, was prancing, kicking, wheeling, jumping, backing, in short per- forming, apparently simultaneously, every action within the compass of violently energized and tre- mendous muscularity. Mr. Mat Davis, the trainer, who was standing near, his countenance faithfully portraying combined anger, horror and despair. These emotions were quickly communicated to the face of Mr. Chetwyn as he rapidly arrived at the scene. “What’s the matter, Davis.?” he asked. “What ails the mare.?” Old Mat, with great presence of mind — ^he had pride in his manners — ^bowed to the lady, whose fleet- ness of foot rivalled her husband’s, before answering gloomily : “In my opinion, it’s a case of all-possessed, gone luny all of a sudden. She has been goin’ kind as a suckin’ dove — the littles’ boy in the stable could exercise her. But jest now she comes out of her stall in sech a fury as never was, and she throwed boy arter boy as fast as we could fling them into the saddle. This stable is turned into a hospital. There ain’t a sound rider left.” This melancholy statement receives confirmation: groans and lamentations com- 11 THE SPORT OF KINGS ing from some half-dozen small-sized humans scat- tered around in various stages of ruin. “And what we are going to do — the races not three weeks off — I don’t know. But it all could be rectified ef that blasted mare — I beg your pardon, mum — hadn’t throwed us over. We that had sech awful good prospects ! We stood to win a fearful pile of money. Now, every thing has gone to blue smash. Ef steam- boats was sellin’ for ten cents apiece we couldn’t, col- lectively, buy a yawl. And worse yit. Oh, Daniel the Prophet! there’s my sister that I persuaded, I felt so sure of that infernal mare — I beg your par- don, mum — to take the long odds with that hard cash she had saved up to pay off that mortgage that’s h’isted on the house over her head.” Com- pletely overcome, he turned away to hide the moisture gathering in his eyes. It was not merely the contemplation of the pe- cuniary loss, great as it was, that so moved him, but the sudden demolition of hopes, the dearest and sweetest, which he had allowed to curl, twine, and to take root in a heart that had few affections, and fewer weaknesses. How many times had his gaze wandered over the beautiful mare with rigid scrutiny after she had been “called on” in her work. Not a muscle from stifle to fetlock escaped his hand, light and sensitive, to detect puff or strain, and unblem- ished, she remained sound as a dollar, with appetite unimpaired. It was human-nature to shut his eyes, and in fancy hear the roar of the ring rampant in victory. And to hear the multitudinous congratula- tions that would be showered upon him. Ah! how THE SPORT OF KINGS bitter was the awakening. How hard the sober reality, now to face. There seemed nothing before him but the misery of defeat. “Don’t fret, Mr. Davis,” said Mrs. Chetwyn kindly ; “the darkest hour is before day.” The trainer shook his head, refusing comfort, but he watched the lady with some interest as she fear- lessly approached the fractious steed after a con- centrated gaze lasting not over thirty second, un- heeding the warnings of the two men who were being dragged about like children, that she would have “her brains kicked out.” Without hesitation she placed her pretty hand on the mare’s arching frothy neck, gently cooing in her soft voice, “Soi, soi, you beauty.” An instantaneous impression was made on the heart and mind of La Sylphide, and she lowered her head to be stroked, testifying unbounded ap- proval of' the newcomer, who, taking the reins in her own hand, commanded the attendants to let her go. And pulling the off stirrup over, hounded into the saddle, and galloped away through the open gate, and out upon the track. Helpless, Mr. Chetwyn looked after her, his heart in his mouth. Once, twice, thrice the frolicsome pair careened around the mile course. The lady then cantered back, and gleefully springing to the ground, ex- claimed: “What a glorious creature she is! She moves like a bird I I am in love with her.” Her af- fections were fully returned; La Sylphide had never been so happy in her life, and seemed ready to jump out of her skin with delight as she gambolled and 13 THE SPORT OF KINGS frisked around, and fawned upon Mrs. Chetwyn, who laughingly said: “Behave yourself, you dear foolish creature; I am going to put you right back into your stall. The mare submitted with admirable docility. The lady then returned to her husband, whose ap- pearance did not indicate approbation, and she promptly began: “Now, don’t scold. Jack. It was such a pleasure.” “A pleasure,” he replied with asperity, “that I shall take especial care you will not enjoy again. I never was so terribly frightened in my life.” “Well, don’t beat me,” she said, with a merry laugh. Her gaiety was so infectious that his brow cleared. “Now, Jackey,” she continued in a melli- fluent tone, “don’t make an old woman of yourself, but go and have an all-round look at the horses, while I attempt to comfort poor Mr. Davis. I believe he is weeping.” She carried the trainer off with her for a little dis- tance. What she said to him nobody heard, but she talked long and earnestly. When she turned to come away no one could have said that Mr. Davis was weeping. But he looked like a man sentenced to death. Mrs. Chetwyn, on the contrary, seemed in the highest spirits, her face wearing a commingled look of exultation and resolve — such as probably glori- fied the face of Deceus when he made his heroic plunge, sacrificing life for his country; or as looked a noble martyr sublimely marching to the stake to meet a fiery death for the hope that gilds the world. As Jack Chetwyn’s wife came smilingly to meet 14j THE SPORT OF KINGS him, he thought that she had never looked so bewilder- ingly lovely. Pardon him, reader, he is yet in the idiotic state incidental to initial matrimony, and he hoped that she was not going to ask to be allowed to ride La Sylphide again. He feared that it would not be possible to deny any request that she would make. She did not ask to ride La Sylphide, but she said, and her voice was low and sweet: “Jackey, my darlinty Aunt Rebecca is a good deal complaining, and she wants me to pass a week or two with her. I do not like to refuse her, she was so kind to papa when he was all broken up after the war. It was her money that started him in business. But you will be busy with the horses and won’t miss me.” “I will though, but I suppose Aunt Rebecca must have her way for this once.” “Of course she must. Now don’t be a goose. Jack. You can expect me to go with you to see La Sylphide win her race.” As they walked homeward, promenade a deuXy her beguiling tongue brought him to a very hopeful view about the prospect of his horses: “They were all sound, and some hints had been given Mr. Davis, without wounding his feelings, about the management of La Sylphide.” Truth is mighty and will prevail, and it is useless to deny that Jack Chetwyn, left alone without the bright, buoyant presence which had so soon become to him what sunshine is to the flower, that his spirits sank rapidly. There is a popular superstition among horsemen to the effect that when racers by extraord- inary good luck, which, in plain English, means good 15 THE SPORT OF KINGS management, are brought up sound, and in blooming condition till the time is near at hand for them to face the starter, then, should one go amiss, a baneful epidemic is communicated, which will go through the stable. Also, that unfortunate I. O. U. forged to the front insistantly. “I don’t know,” he communed within himself, with commendable veracity, “what made me such a simpleton. I knew the dear little soul wasn’t hungry for diamonds, but I had a yearn- ing to give them to her. Well! well! if the worst come, I will sell the horses, and maybe some of the acres. Meanwhile I’ll look sharp after the horses. And wouldn’t it be a joy if La Sylphide should win.” Going to the stable he found old Mat in a horrible humor, apparently without cause, for the racers were taking their work well — only the mare was not visible. “Why is not La Sylphide out.?” asked Mr. Chet- wyn. Had old Mat been struck between the eyes, he could hardly have shown greater exasperation, but he answered : “I got her worked, somehow, yearly this mornin’, by herself, to keep her quiet.” Scowling fiercely at the owner, he continued, “See here, Mr. Jack, I’ve got on my hands the biggest contract about that cussed mare that ever a man had ; and if her race was well over, I’d eenmost be willin’ to work for you the rest of my nateral life free, gratis, and for nothin’,” he sighed deeply. “I’ve got to, no backin’ out, to keep on with her. And I am goin’ to do it my own way, and don’t you interfere. I’m doin’ all a man kin do, and we’ve got a chance to win — ef Providence don’t split on us.” 16 THE SPORT OF KINGS Mr. Chetwyn had got “his office.” To oppose a trainer is against all traditions, and the days passed bringing unmitigated discomfort to him, principally owing to the sustained ferocity of Mr. Davis’s tem- per. What was being done with La Sylphide he did not dare to ask. For whole days he would sit on the topmost rail of the enclosure around the stable-build- ings, gazing dumbly at the mare’s closely locked door. He missed his wife. He pined for the comfort she would be sure to give him. And how happy he felt on the day of her expected return — the eventful day of the mare’s race. But in place of Mrs. Chetwyn, came a note, expressing regret, but saying it would not be possible for her to return home till late after- noon, and without her he must go to see La Sylphide win her race. Jack Chetwyn crushed the note in his hand, lost heart, and almost decided not to go to the races at all. A frightful picture rose before his eyes • — La Sylphide brought on the track and acting like mad. In a despairing mood he walked to his stables, where there was a silence of death. He was briefly informed by Mr. Davis, who seemed the incarnation of rage, that only the mare would start to-day, and that she had been sent to the Association’s track. “And now, Mr. Jack,” snarled the trainer, “I’ve got before me the hardest day’s work mortal man ever had, and I won’t be pestered with you. Jest you take your place in the grand stand, and stay there, no matter what happens, till our race is over. What’s goin’ to happen the Lord in Heaven only knows. But I wish I was dead !” The Kentucky Association is the oldest living rac- 17 THE SPORT OF KINGS ing club in America. Organized 1826 by about fifty of the prominent turfmen of central Kentucky. These gentlemen, passing away, were succeeded by others, who, in turn, made way for their successors. For long years here was the best racing in America, and characterized by decorum and fairness. Bar acci- dents, the best horse would win. Each jockey knew that he must ride fair, and win if he could. The world’s best fighters had their moments of fear, and Jack Chetwyn had a strong inclination to “flicker” — to keep out of it, but with an effort he nerved himself to face consequences. But he could not remember of ever previously feeling so utterly miserable as when he passed through the entrance gate and made his way to the grand stand. Un- sociable, he did not respond with cordiality to the many efforts made to engage him in conversation. “Excuse me,” he said, hurrying on. “Well, stay,” was persisted, “long enough to tell us who it is with the outlandish name that is going to ride your mare.” “I really don’t know. Somebody that Davis has picked up,” answered Chetwyn, hurrying away. Looking after him a puzzled turfite said discon- tentedly: “I wonder what is the matter with Jack Chetwyn. He ought not to have got married if he’s going to turn rusty on his old pals.” A grave voice responded : “I have heard that his mare has been play- ing the dickens. That is a dispensation few can bear up under jovially — I have been there myself.” It was some minutes after, Mr. Chetwyn finding a seat, looked at the program held loosely in his hand. Thoughts of La Sylphide filling his brain he began 18 THE SPORT OF KINGS to hate the mare and to wish that she had died in in- fancy. Then he was conscious of a feeling of com- passion for the unlucky chap going to ride her, and mechanically he sought out the name; and it was plain to read: “John Chetwyn’s bay mare, La Syl- phide, by Fellowcraft — dam Sylph by Imp. Glenelg; jockey Pheohki.” Jack Chetwyn was a high-minded, high-bred American, and if he did not aspire to be dashingly courageous, he could always be decently collected, but he felt strangely unnerved at the sight of that name; it seemed instinct with sinister warning — it affected him in a harassing way, as if some one he dearly loved were in peril. But the thought that his wife was safe with Aunt Rebecca, and that he would soon have her to himself again, enabled him to shake off the depressing influence — measurably. Second only to the inviolability of the Masonic secrets, supposed to be, were the affairs of a training stable. But let a horse go wrong, the birds of the air — the breezes of heaven seem to divulge it, and La Sylphide’s misconduct had leaked out, and deeply anxious were those who had made investments about her. But of late the earth might as well have opened and swallowed her up, so little enlightenment had been obtained. It was now known, however, that in the early morning she had been brought to her quar- ters on the racing grounds. But no one had seen her. Not even for the preliminary gallop had she been brought out. And, unambitious of a broken head, no one had asked questions from Mr. Davis who, looking like vengeance, sat in a splint-bottomed 19 THE SPORT OF KINGS chair, tilted against the mare’s door, and when the order came to bring the mare on the track, his only reply was a brief mention of the place of torment. But when his own split-second timer informed him categorically that he had not an instant to lose, with a deep groan he arose, unlocked the door, and brought out the mare, giving her in charge of one of the men. Then he brought out a lad completely wrapped in a large coarse cloak. Little of him could be seen. From his blue cap his black hair descends in whisks, almost concealing his face. At the scales the cloak was re- moved, but a blue scarf swaddles neck and face, the boy coughing and choking as if he would burst a blood-vessel. “He’s got a cold,” explained Mr. Davis gruffly, “and there wasn’t no time left to change riders adding sardonically, “these jocks ’round here ain’t none of them too keen to pilot this mare.” When lifted to the saddle the boy dropped into an ungainly lump. While the racers were lining up for the start, old Mat, with firm hold of the bridle, said : “This mare is vicious. I wish I may die if she did not eenmost clean out that Favordale colt at Ford- ham. I’ll take her back’ards, and let her loose when the field is off — to prevent accidents.” When the start is made, the horses off, the jockey on La Sylphide, still in a lump, made no effort to de- crease the wide gap opened. The mare’s backers were excited and wrathful, and a perfect storm bursts from a frantic mob. “Go along, boy ! What are you hanging back for ? Are you going to sleep .P” Some of the desperate 20 THE SPORT OF KINGS ones would willingly revive the obsolete argumentum ad lapides. “Bump on a log ! He’s going to milk !” roared a jubilant plunger whose money was not on La Syl- phide. The mare and jockey, seemingly of one mind about the pace — a “bad last” having no terror — take the “heart-breaking hill,” where so many good horses have given up the ghost, so to speak, inexhaustively. But the hill surmounted then comes a surprise — the vast multitude almost ceased to breathe. The boy on La Sylphide uplifts himself, and sat down to ride. The willing mare, given her head, and rapidly pass- ing her tiring field, shoots to the front, and comes flying down the stretch at a flight of speed never witnessed before by the oldest race-goers, and reaches the winning post an easy winner. People look at one another in amazement when the time for the mile and quarter is hung out: 2:7% — the fastest time ever made on the Lexington track — and not since equaled. After the weighing in, old Mat, like a whirlwind, pounced upon the boy, and throwing the cloak around him and carrying him in his arms, thrusting him into a waiting carriage, shouts to the coachman: “Drive like lightning.” A wondrous joy lights up his homely face as he receives into his own hands the bridle-reins of the gallant mare. Winning a race in marvelous time does not consti- tute the best and purest joy, but it is very dazzling and seductive. 21 THE SPORT OF KINGS Old Mat’s dream of victory is realized with its corollary of felicities. His name is shouted, and congratulations galore. Many rush eagerly to touch his hand. Others, that cannot get near enough, reach over and touch him with their walking sticks. Catching sight of Mr. Chetwyn, he shouted: “We win, Mr. Jack-” 22 II. WHY THERE WAS NO SERMON AT MOUNT GILEAD. “When God erects a house of prayer, The Devil always builds a chapel there, And t’will be found on examination. The latter has the largest congregation.” In bygone days, owing to the high estate of its principal patrons. Old Hickory at the head, racing was very fashionable in Tennessee; and the love of the thoroughbred horse pervaded all classes, masses, and ranks. Even the clergy did not escape the con- tagion — perhaps it had got into the constitution, and had to run its course in a modified form. The Rev. Hubbard Saunders owned the brood- mare, Rosy Clack, and bred, among other distin- guished performers on the turf, Tennessee Oscar who, like the English Highflyer, and Major Ball’s Florizel, never paid forfeit, nor suffered defeat, or felt the touch of whip or spur. The dam of the noted quartet — the “Four Tennes- see Brothers” — Madam Tonson, was the property of the Rev. H. H. Cryer. When she died he had her respectably buried, and that she should not be for- gotten, published an obituary notice. Small wonder then that some of the honest sons of toil — the back- 23 THE SPORT OF KINGS bone of a country — should follow the lead of their betters. Notably, were two small farmers and neigh- bors, namely, Hiram Jones and Jason Smith. Each, owning a few thoroughbred broodmares, trained and raced the produce. As their hearts were in the business, nothing calcu- lated to ensure success was omitted, and they pros- pered accordingly. But the strange thing happened to both, that while in Nashville, attending a race- meeting, and attracted by motives of curiosity, went together to hear the preaching of that extraordinarily eloquent Methodist divine, Maffit. It was as good seed sown on rankly good ground. In brief, they were converted, became members of the church; and in the glow of a newly awakened and fervid faith, horse-racing which had been to them the ultima thule of terrestrial joys, now appeared as one of the most powerful allurements of the Evil One to win over souls to everlasting perdition; and on returning to their homes, sold the thoroughbreds, and energetic- ally began to walk, trot, nay, gallop in the new life inculcated by a radical change of heart. Nor was it enough to feel that they were making their own calling and election sure; there were other souls to be saved, and they went about pleading, praying, exhorting, until the entire neighborhood was meta- morphized into a religious community. Logs were cut, a church erected, and application made to the General Conference for a preacher. To them was sent Brother Amos Peacemaker, and never did clerical garb sit on worthier shoulders. To his sincere piety was added a herculean frame and a courageous spirit, 24 THE SPORT OF KINGS and to begin as he meant to hold out, on the first occasion of his ministration he announced, that no backsliding, no slothful, no lukewarm Christianity w'ould be tolerated, that he would have none other than a sober, decent. God-fearing congregation. Brothers Smith and Jones, in their capacity of presiding elders, were very zealous, inspired by the feeling that as especial brands they had been plucked from the burning and were chosen vessels, appointed, and divinely commissioned to aid in the glorious work of saving souls, and they were ready to repeat what that great Apostle said almost two thousand years ago : “Though I should die with Thee, I will not deny Thee” — yet we all know what hap- pened to him before the crowing of the cock. Human nature at its best can rarely stand the trial, as it were, by fire, and “let not him that girdeth on his armor boast himself as he that putteth it off.” All too soon the Tempter cunningly pre- pared a snare, by means of which, to enter into the habitations so newly swept and garnished, and to battle with, and to drive out the angel. The Sabbath day was rarely beautiful. The branches of the trees were outlined clear and distinct against the pale, pure blue of the morning sky ten- derly flushed with the faintest rose-pink. There was' no sound far or near save the rythmic whisperings of the gentle breeze, and the sweet wild-birds caroling their tunes of praise to Him who hath said: “Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.” The little church. Mount Gilead, was filled to overflowing with worshipers awaiting in decorous silence the com- 25 THE SPORT OF KINGS ing of Brother Peacemaker to open the services. ’Twas then that Brother Jones, seeing the oppor- tunity, invited Brother Smith to withdraw from the church when they could, out in the open air, have a full, free, private, and prayerful interchange of views upon a certain church matter left to their de- cision. Both desirous of the best means for the greater good, an agreement was soon reached, leav- ing some time on their hands — Brother Peacemaker unaccountably delayed. Ah, the pity of it, but not till the millennium shall have come, and the lamb can lie down with the wolf, and the child may place its hand on the cockatrice’s den; and the malignant Spirit of Evil chained for a thousand years, will he lose his power for the tempt- ing of the saints. Oh, Brother Jones, oh. Brother Smith, take heed to your selves. You have not overturned the salt, nor sat at table with thirteen, nor seen the new moon through foliage of trees, yet, even now, you are over- shadowed by an evil influence, and the Arch Enemy is near. Gird on your armor to resist valiently — ^you are in a danger unseen, unsuspected. “Brother Smith,” said Brother Jones in a pained, faltering voice, “I want your prayers. I need ’em, fer latterly, at times I am troubled in my mind. Doubts and fears and misgivings comes a-creepin’ and a-crawlin’ over me, leastways, arter being so run mad ’bout the savin’ of other people’s souls, I mought myself become a cast-a-way.” “Brother Jones,” replied Brother Smith, feelingly, and in deep contrition, “I will confess to you that I, 26 THE SPORT OF KINGS too, have been afflicted with jest some of them same sort of senti-ments. In groanings of sperit I have wrastled agin it, but now and then I look longingly back arter the flesh-pots of Egypt.” A compassionate and friendly hand was laid on Brother Smith’s shoulder, as Brother Jones replied, his voice quivering with earnestness: “That old sar- pint, Sattin, has been a chunking of me too, and it mought be bekase of a consentin’ ter sin — when I sold my race stock, I kept back Patty Puffs’ yearlin’ filly, which I hadn’t orter done. But she was a rale beauty and I couldn’t make up my mind ter part with her, which I had oughter done. In course, I didn’t ’low ter train her; but I thought she’d make a capi- tal ridin’ nag fer Betsey.” “Wall, now, that’s quare, it rely is,” said Brother Smith, “but that’s eggzackly what happened ter me ’bout a yearlin’ filly of Madam Tonson’s stock. I never seen a finer figger of a filly — and, to-day she is Eliza Jane’s ridin’ nag. Brother Jones, it was a solemn and a bindin’ pledge we made when we prom- ised ter keep ourselves unstained, and unspotted from the world, the flesh and the devil. It was easy at fust. I was so lifted up with speritual rejoicin’ that I clean lost sight of cawnal hankerin’s; but now, sometimes — I do fight agin it — but it comes over me that boss racin’ is goin ter be ter me a stone of stumblin’ and a rock of offense. I know it’s a failin’ from grace; but ter save my life I can’t always put away from my mind and memory the delights of them wicked days, its heart-breaks nuther” — he sighed — 27 THE SPORT OF KINGS “the sperit is willin’, but the flesh is weak — moughty weak.” “That’s so,” said Brother Jones. “Them was days when we was in the bonds of sin, and the gall of iniquity. But they pester me yit. I fergits nothin’. “And was jest half crazy, and come nigh throwin’ my pool tickets away — not knowin’ what I did.” Both men were now completely dominated by the turf fever — rampant on account of having been 28 THE SPORT OF KINGS rigidly suppressed. Other races were recalled, and gloated over, or regretted, till the climax was reached in the laudation of horses each had trained and raced. This was progression on thin ice, and led, as might be expected, to a catastrophe. After a reminiscent sigh, more of pleasure than pain. Brother Jones remarked: “The common notion is, that hoss racin’ is a ticklish business ; but, I hold that when you’ve got the old, true racin’ blood, and stick ter it, you’ll most ginerly be thar, or thar-a- bouts. And, foolin’ with nothing but Rosy Clack’s stock, I have always had my full sheer of luck; but it was the surprisinist thing ter me. Brother Smith, that you done as well as you did, pro j ekin’ with that Madam Tonson stock. “She warn’t thoroughbred.” A blow between the eyes would not have so instan- taneously and thoroughly exasperated. “You’re a liar!” burst out Brother Smith, with flashing eyes. Brother Jones’ good right fist shot up instantly, but instead of descending, remained ar- rested in mid-air, by a sudden and violent diversion of interest, hereinafter to be related. Sister Jones, whose family had preceded her to the meeting house, concluded her arrangements for the Sunday cold dinner — always a thorn in the flesh to the southern stomachs — and then tied on her bon- net, somewhat loosely, in her haste, before going out to the stile-block to mount the descendant of Rosy Clack, more nearly, Patty Puff, patiently waiting, ready saddled. It so happened, that Sister Smith — who had also been detained at home on account of household mat- 29 THE SPORT OF KINGS ters — was then passing bj, riding a female offshoot of Madam Tonson, whose immaculate purity of blood had been assailed, maugre she had given to the turf the celebrated brothers, Monsieur Tonson, Sir Rich- ard, Henry and Champion. These estimable women were pleased to meet, and, after neighborly greeting, expressed the pleasure naturally afforded, by jour- neying together to meeting. They were elderly, and of irreproachable character; good wives, good mothers, and model church members, but each, by ordering of Providence, had come of a sporting family, and had inherited an eye for excellence of horse-flesh, hence the remark made by Sister Smith: “That’s a likely nag you’re on. Sister Jones.” “She is indeed,” was the reply. “She goes back to that well-tried, grand old mare. Rosy Clack. But you are ridin’ a smartish nag yourself. Sister Smith.” “Sartinly, I am,” was the immediate and decided answer. “She is a descendant of Madam Tonson. No better stock.” Sister Jones looked at her companion pityingly, while replying, with what she deemed Christian for- bearance : “Of all the brood-mares born on top of this earth that Madam Tonson had the most luck. Them four colts of hem did win many a race, onaccount- ably, seein’ they was not of the ginnywine racin’ blood.” “Sister Jones,” said Sister Smith, sharply, “you air not only talkin’ ’bout what you don’t know, but you air insultin’. Madame Tonson was jest as well bred as Rosy Mack, or Rosy Clack, whichever mought be her name.” 30 THE SPORT OF KINGS Sister Jones got red in the face, her anger was rising; still she endeavored to answer with modera- tion, and failed lamentably: “Sister Smith, may the good Lord have pity on you for bein’ a no-sense fool.” Sister Smith, too, got red in the face, and choleric. Her ancestors had seen service in the Revolution, and by nature she was combative and daring. “Fools is plenty,” she snapped, “and talk is cheap, but I dar you, here and now, ter let the nags lope erlong four miles till the meetin’ house hoves in view — we can then draw rein — and it will be seed which nag has had the most starch tooken outen her.” Sister Jones looked serious. The banter was entic- ing; but it savored of racing — it was racing, and there might be peril in it to her immortal soul. So, she shook her head. Sister Smith looked at Sister Jones contempt- uously, her Revolutionary blood intolerant of cowar- dice. “I knowed you’d be afeard ter resk it,” she said jeeringly. Sister Jones’ forbears had also been Revolutionary soldiers, and it was not in her nature to remain qui- escent under such a taunt, so she spoke up, bold as a lion : “I ain’t afeard ter resk it. And when you say. Now, we’ll break, and never ease up tell the meetin’ house is in sight; and, in my way of thinkin’, your nag will git thar on three laigs — ^if she don’t die on the way.” “Blood will tell,” and, at the word, the high-born animals bounded away, and in three jumps were rac- ing, side by side, neck and neck, and for a mile neither 31 THE SPORT OF KINGS could get one inch the better of the other. Then, owing to some impediment in the road, the descendant of Rosy Clack had the misfortune to stumble, and lost yards. “Go on, mare!” shouted Sister Jones, applying her riding-switch vigorously. The mettle- some animal, recovering her foot, and straining every nerve, forged ahead, passing her adversary. “Go ’long, brute !” cried Sister Smith, lashing the relation of Madam Ton son, who struggled on un- flinchingly till she reached that pretty lean head in her front, racing like the wind. Now it was any- body’s race. First one, then the other showed in first place — they were doing all they knew how. Sister Jones’ loosely tied bonnet flow off. Quick to follow it was Sister Smith’s alpaca cape. This de- fection of those articles of their attire was deeply felt by the ladies, who at once became morbidly anxious to instantly discontinue the contest, and tugged at the reins. But the hard-bottomed stock had not yet enough of it, and out of hand, raced on till, mistak- ing the church for the judge’s stand — owing to want of education — of their own accord pulled up — a dead heat. It was the first glimpse of the coming racers which had suspended the disamenities between Brothers Jones and Smith, without protest, or power of re- sistance, and with breathless interest they watched “the finish.” Nothing on earth is better calculated to induce obliquity of vision than the close finish of a well- contested race. S2 THE SPORT OF KINGS “Hooray,” shouted Brother Jones, flourishing his hat. “My mare win!” “No sech thing,” yelled Brother Smith. “My mare win!” to emphasize his assertion down crashed his fist against the hatless poll of Brother Jones. The blow was returned with savage energy. Both were athletic men, and immediately commenced, what pugilists would call, a beautiful “tw^o-handed fight” : but it’s one and one character changed. The clatter of hoof-beats had brought out the con- gregation as if stirred by a wind. Brother Jones had friends, so had Brother Smith. Fighting is catching, and a merry little mill was in full blast when Brother Peacemaker rode up. He was a muscular Christian, and prompt. He jumped from his horse, and with consistent, impartial and well-delivered blows soon conquered a peace. “Pretty church-members you are,” he cried, stamping. “There is not enough Christianity in this whole congregation to rattle in a mustard seed. Go home, kneel and pray, and chastise your wicked bodies, and macerate your wretched spirits, and per- haps the good, all-pitying God, knowing your weak- ness, may pardon you, and with humble, penetential hearts come to meeting next Sunday. There will he no sermon at Moimt Gilead to-day,^' 33 III. THE bishop’s daughter. In the trimly kept plaismce of the Episcopal resi- dence at Louisburg underneath acclimated exotics stands a young girl. The sunbeams that flicker through the graceful foliage of the evergreens dance on the golden head — glisten in the soft blue eyes — tinging with the faintest pink the tender oval of her delicate cheek. Her well-formed figure, slight and agile, is slightly bent in an attitude of wistful ex- pectancy as from a heart not at ease about some one absent. Her face brightens at the sound of a fa- miliar step, but loses its brightness, catching a glimpse of the anxious, careworn look of the man who approaches not with the joyous animation of a lover to a rendezvous, but with the lagging steps of a bringer of bad news. “Has anything happened to the mare.^^” she asked, advancing with quick steps. He takes the two hands extended to him, and hold- ing them in his clasp for a few moments, released them with a sigh. “Helen,” he said, “the whole round world does not hold so miserable a creature as you now see before you. When we parted yesterday — I was almost too happy — I saw my way to you. But now,” he added 34. 