CRESCEUS, 2:02V4 



the quarter. Click ! went the stop watches. Quarter in 

 13 if seconds. Down the back-stretch, ding, dong, 

 ''Look out for the half — it's a record so far. There 

 he goes — up! What is it? The half in i :oi^." 



Good enough, and the sturdy champion is still go- 

 ing as steadily as an eight-day clock, with accelerated 

 speed. There was no shouting on the part of the 

 crowd — no offers of wagers on the result — nothing 

 but eager straining for a view of the turn into the 

 stretch, and short tense gasps of "Cresceus !" ''Cres- 

 ceus — come on you Cresceus !" ''Third quarter — there 

 you go — what is it?" Time, i 132^. Down the home- 

 stretch to the wire came the champion, moving like 

 a beautiful piece of machinery, or better still, a per- 

 fectly trained piece of horse flesh. 



No driving visible — no ostentatious prompting. 

 Ketcham sat like a statue. The finish down the home- 

 stretch was a sight to remember. The crowd stood 

 up again. There was a rush for the rail — a mutter 

 of voices, .then a grumble, then a roar : "Cresceus ! 

 Cresceus ! Cresceus ! Come on, good boy ! Shove 

 him, George. The world is yours," yelled a loud-voiced 

 man in the grand stand. There was noise enough to 

 throw any good horse out of his gait. Fluttering cam- 

 bric, wildly waving hats, screams of exhortation — 

 "Cresceus ! come on you, Cresceus !" Amid a demon- 

 stration that might send any horse to the barn with 

 his head swelled, Cresceus shot under the wire in the 

 fastest time the state of Minnesota had ever seen, 



