82 JUSTIN MORGAN 



for a short distance — then with a sudden and unexpected 

 spurt the Morgan dashed in a length ahead. 



His friends cheered Morgan lustily; the other faction 

 were too astonished to other than gasp slightly, and 

 were silent. Evans himself was expressionless — if any- 

 thing, he, as well as Morgan, looked a little bored at the 

 easy victory, and cantered back to the starting point for 

 the next race with a sort of indifference. 



The second was twin to the first. Morgan seemed 

 just waking up, as he sprang forward perfunctorily at 

 the finish, winning with ease. He moved as if he knew 

 not fatigue, even after the hard day's work. It was the 

 Desert training of his ancestors within him, their mar- 

 vellous staying qualities. 



When they returned the second time the Coxcomb was 

 waiting, his restive horse trembling in anticipation of a 

 victory. 



One or two false starts, and they were off. 



The Morgan was away toward the goal like an arrow 

 from an Indian's bow — his small extended muzzle and 

 deep wide chest seemed to cut the air. In the short 

 length of the course he thought of Flying Childers win- 

 ning his historic race against the runner Fox, about 

 seventy-five years before, of which his father told him. 

 Perhaps this memory and the strain of this great an- 

 cestor awakened possibilities within him — the road ran 

 past, his small, well shaped black feet spurned the earth, 

 and before he knew it he was at the finish almost a length 

 ahead of the horse who had won so miny races on The 

 Plains of Abraham. 



The chagrin of his antagonist's rider was not lessened 

 by the laughs and cheers of the farmers, as they clus- 

 tered about Morgan and patted his round, deep body and 

 oblique shoulders. 



The Coxcomb took his defeat ungracefully and having 

 settled his bets rode impatiently away with his friends. 



