238 TALES OF THE TURF. 



The day of the race came. A syndicate had been 

 formed. I was the President and sole manager of the 

 race, with autocratic powers of changing drivers or doing 

 anything which in any emergency it appeared to me 

 necessary to win. The old sfentleman was to drive, unless 

 it came to a point where I thought a change of drivers 

 necessary, then there must not be a shade of dissent. He 

 must go down and out at my command. 



The brother-in-law of the old gentleman, and a well- 

 known pool man, was also taken into the close corpor- 

 ation, making four stockholders, each liable for an equal 

 assessment in case of loss — which we thought only pos- 

 sible in case lightning should strike the mare — and each 

 entitled to an eaual dividend after the race was won. The 

 pool man was appointed chairman of the financial com- 

 mittee, with orders to report progress from time to time. 



Just before the race was called there raced up to the 

 gate, covered with dust and sweat, and hitched to an ordi- 

 nary top buggy, the bay mare driven by "The Sandpiper." 

 After racing with everything on the road while coming to 

 the track, he was now to make his first appearance on the 

 American trotting turf. He borrowed an old straight- 

 axle sulky that had not done track duty for many a day, 

 hired a "swipe," hitched up the mare and appeared at the 

 stand when the bell tapped. His feet were braced in the 

 leather heel support, instead of the iron shaft stirrup, 

 until I, fearing an accident, told him where to put them. 

 He exchanged his broad-brimmed straw hat, after some 

 expostulation and objections, for a blue jockey cap, and 

 wore a long linen duster. 



Meantime the syndicate was taking all the Kit Curry 

 stock in the betting ring, she starting at about $5 in pools 

 of $80. J. B. Richardson was first choice; the Canadian 



