58 The Trotting and the Pacing Horse 



to keep Marvin from slipping through with the 

 stallion. The pocket was complete, and thought 

 to be secure. A smile of triumph lighted Doble's 

 face, and the crowd settled sullenly down to the 

 belief that the race was over. Marvin was de- 

 nounced as a fool for placing himself at a dis- 

 advantage, and imagination pictured just beyond 

 the wire the crown of Goldsmith Maid with 

 new laurel woven into it. But look ! By the 

 ghosts of the departed ! Marvin has deter- 

 mined upon a bold experiment. He falls back 

 and to the right, with the intention of getting 

 out and around the pocket. Too late, too late ! 

 is the hoarse whisper. Why, man, you have 

 but 150 yards in which to straighten your 

 horse and head the Maid, whose burst of speed 

 has been held in reserve for just such an oc- 

 casion as this! Her gait is 2.14, and you, 

 well, you are simply mad ! The uncounted thou- 

 sands held their breath. The stallion does not 

 leave his feet although pulled to a 45-angle 

 to the right, and the moment that his head is 

 clear and the path open, he dashes forward with 

 the speed of the stag-hound. It is more like fly- 

 ing than trotting. Doble hurries his mare into 

 a break, but he cannot stop the dark shadow 



