wanted to try it, and did, and thereby the horse got hold of his imagination also.     

       Next morning at daylight we went down to the fairground to see Montravers driven. There were other horses at work, and the shouts of the drivers and the swift tattoo of the hoofs quickened our pulses before we could see the track. The scene, so full of life and spirit, thrilled us. It was fine bait for boys and men. In our excitement we thought neither of school nor of breakfast.     

       By and by the leading citizens began to arrive in handsome runabouts and       to take their places on the grand stand.     

       “That's Colonel Sile Buckstone,” Henry whispered.     

       There was no mistaking the Colonel's bovine head and scarlet blossom. His voice roared a greeting to every newcomer. His son Ralph, our schoolmate, arrived with his father, and joined us down by the wire. Senator Griggs, Judge Warner, and a number of leading merchants had also arrived. These men had what was called a fine “delivery.” Most of them sat in broadcloth and silk hats, expectorating with a delivery at once exact and impressive. There was the resounding Websterian tone coupled with a rustic swagger and glibness that could be found in every country village. What vocal and pedestrial splendor was theirs as they rose and strode to the sulky of Montravers, who had finished a trial heat! Much of the splendor had been imported from the capitals by Smithers, Brooks, and Buckstone; but more of it was natural Websterian effulgence.     

       Mr. Smead was right; the trotter was indeed the friend and ally of the       “conversationalist.” How well those high-sounding names fitted the Websterian tone—Montravers, Hambletonian, Abdallah, Mambrino Chief.       And so it was with all the vivid phrases of the racetrack. The sleek, high heads and spurning feet of the horses seemed to stimulate and reflect the Websterian spirit. When a man looked at one of those horses he unconsciously tightened his check rein. If his neck was a bit weary, he felt for his flask or set out for the Palace Hotel.     

       Those great men complimented Mr. Smead on his horse, and the Senator bet a hundred dollars with the Congressman that Montravers would win his race.     

       “Let us bet on that horse,” said Henry to me; “we can't lose.” 

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