HOW THE DEACON BECAME A HORSE JOCKEY. 



L. B. ELLIOTT. 

 Photos by the Author. 



THE DEACON. 



My acquaintance with the Deacon began 

 one sultry afternoon when I was called to 

 photograph him, driving the gray stallion, 

 Ashwind, at full speed, on a small race 

 track in Western New York. Of course 

 Ashwind doesn't need a driver. He was 

 born with more intelligence than some 

 men acquire, and has won so many fast 

 races in the grand circuit that he knows 

 the rules of the game even better than his 

 venerable owner and trainer, Tom Lark; 

 but he likes to have Deacon drive him and 

 Deacon enjoys the sport. Deacon has been 

 Ashwind's playmate ever since he was a 

 wee puppy. Where he came from, no one 

 knows. His ancestry is shrouded in mys- 

 tery, but a glance at his face shows a com- 

 bination of bulldog courage and terrier sa- 

 gacity. The first 4 years of his life were 

 spent just as any dog's time might be spent, 

 running wild on the old farm 9 months of 

 the year, chasing chucks and cotton-tails, 

 bringing up the cows and amusing his 

 bosom friend, Ashwind. Deacon never 

 seemed content unless he could be within 

 speaking distance of Ashwind, and he 

 reached the acme of earthly bliss when he 

 could lie on his back just in front of Ash- 

 wind's fore feet and be nipped and rolled 

 and nosed about by the fleet pacer. 



As soon as the racing season began, Dea- 

 con, Ashwind and Tom Lark would be 

 found where the pace was the hottest and 

 the stakes the biggest. Thus it came about 

 that Ashwind at 6 years, togged in hop- 



ples, was leading the 20 class, an easy win- 

 ner in all events. Tom knew the pow- 

 ers of his mighty gray and each day as he 

 turned the stallion's nose into the stretch, 

 held a tight rein and slowed him down to 

 a lead of a neck, clearing the wire with a 

 final rush that made the bookies and the 

 bettors jeer and earned many a caution 

 and sharp reprimand from the judges for 

 poor Tom. 



Ashwind soon learned the trick and like 

 a reasonable being carried out the inten- 

 tion of his master to the best of his ability. 



His racing instincts would invariably get 

 the better of him at the start of a heat, and, 

 no matter how much he was jockeyed in the 

 scoring, his white nose was always first 

 under the wire with the field soon stringing 

 along in the rear, in spite of all the old 

 man could do to hold him. Then he would 

 gradually come to his senses and begin to 

 slow down, keeping well in the lead, how- 

 ever, up to the home stretch, when he would 

 quit completely, and, utterly oblivious of 

 Tom's frantic urging, would finish a winner 

 as limp as a rag, coming to a dead stop a 



ASHWIND. 



341 



