United States or Mauritania ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"Well, and what did you do yesterday? Win anything?" asked Vronsky. "Eight thousand. But three don't count; he won't pay up." "Oh, then you can afford to lose over me," said Vronsky, laughing. "No chance of my losing. Mahotin's the only one that's risky." And the conversation passed to forecasts of the coming race, the only thing Vronsky could think of just now.
"Has the mare come from Tsarskoe?" "Yes, but I've not seen her yet." "They say Mahotin's Gladiator's lame." "Nonsense! But however are you going to race in this mud?" said the other. "Here are my saviors!" cried Petritsky, seeing them come in. Before him stood the orderly with a tray of brandy and salted cucumbers. "Here's Yashvin ordering me to drink a pick-me-up."
The second race was apparently going on, for just as he went into the sheds he heard a bell ringing. Going towards the stable, he met the white-legged chestnut, Mahotin's Gladiator, being led to the race-course in a blue forage horsecloth, with what looked like huge ears edged with blue. "Where's Cord?" he asked the stable-boy. "In the stable, putting on the saddle."
Frou-Frou, excited and over-nervous, had lost the first moment, and several horses had started before her, but before reaching the stream, Vronsky, who was holding in the mare with all his force as she tugged at the bridle, easily overtook three, and there were left in front of him Mahotin's chestnut Gladiator, whose hind-quarters were moving lightly and rhythmically up and down exactly in front of Vronsky, and in front of all, the dainty mare Diana bearing Kuzovlev more dead than alive.
Word Of The Day