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Don't drive yo' ole pacer hard jes' walk around him, sah. Do as you please, you've earned the privilege. It's yo' walk over an' yo' money." The fifth heat was almost a repetition of the fourth, the old pacer beating the tired mare cruelly, pacing her to a standstill. It was all over with Lizzette, anyone could see that. The judges hung out: 5th Heat: Ben Butler, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd. Time, 2:24.
Even Helen could not tell how it was done nor why she had consented.... "No no you are hot and tired and you shall not walk.... I will give you just a little spin before Mammy Maria calls you to dinner.... Yes, Lizzette and Sadie B. always do their best when a pretty girl is behind them." How refreshing the air hot and tired as she was.
It was then that the old man began to drive, and moving like well-balanced machinery, the old pacer caught again the spirit of his youth, as the old time speed came back, and leaving Trumps behind he even butted his bull-dog nose into the seat of Lizzette's sulky, and clung determinedly there, right up to the wire, beaten only by a length. Lizzette had won the heat.
"Trumps is done fur, Ben Butler, but Lizzette what will Travis do? Ah, ole hoss, we're up ag'in it!" It was too true, as the next heat proved. Away Trumps and Lizzette went, forgetful of all else, while the old man trailed behind, talking to, soothing, coaxing the old horse and driving him as only a master could. "They're at it ag'in ole hoss, what fools! Whoa steady there!
Never before had anything been done like this. The old, blind pacer, the quaint old preacher the thing they were going to shut out, the pathos, the splendor of it all, shook them as humanity will ever be shaken when the rejected stone comes up in the beauty of purest marble. Here it was: 4th Heat: Ben Butler, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd. Time, 2:19-1/2. What a record it was for the old pacer!
Trumps is done fur, an' you'll see No sand left in his crops, cooked watch an' see, oh, my, Ben Butler there he's up now up an' done fur Go now move some hi " Trumps and Lizzette had raced it out to the head of the stretch. But Trumps was not equal to the clip which Travis had made cyclonic, knowing the horse was sadly distressed.
She was warmed up, and ready for speed. Travis stood watching Lizzette cool out. Jud came up and stood looking searchingly at him. There was but a glance and a nod, and Travis walked over to the grand-stand, light-hearted and even jolly, where he stood in a group of society folks. He was met by a protest of feminine raillery: "Oh, our gloves, our candy! Oh, Mr. Travis, to get beat that way!"
"It is strange. That mare Lizzette is a wonder, an' by gad, sah, didn't the old pacer come? By gad, but if he'd begun that drive jus' fifty yards sooner our money" Flecker groaned: "We're gone, Colonel one thousand we put up and the one we hedged with." "By gad, sah, but, Flecker, don't you think Lizzette went smoother that last heat? She had a different stride, a different gait."
As the race was best three out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker of Tennessee would win the race and the purse. But when the old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye told him the gallant gelding was all out he was distressed greatly in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced at Lizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. His heart fell.
The judge hung out: 3rd Heat: Lizzette, 1st; Ben Butler, 2nd; Trumps distanced. Time, 2:20. Lizzette had won, but the crowd had begun to see. "The old pacer the old pacer!" they yelled. Travis bit his lip "what did it all mean? He had won the heat. Trumps was shut out, and there they were yelling for the old pacer!" The Bishop was pale to the roots of his hair when he got out of the sulky.
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