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"Ruteroth trains; Ruteroth trains awfully," put in Cos Wentworth, looking up out of a great silver flagon of Badminton, with which he was ending his breakfast; and referring to that Austrian who was to ride the Paris favorite. "Remember him at La Marche last year, and the racing at Vincennes didn't take a thing that could make flesh muscles like iron, you know never touched a soda even "
L'Etoile was a brilliant enough bay in his fashion, but Count Ruteroth knew the measure of his pace and powers too thoroughly to expect him to live against the strides of the Guards' gray. "My beauty, won't you cut those German fellows down!" muttered Rake, the enthusiast, in the saddling inclosure. "As for those fools what go agin you, you'll put them in a hole, and no mistake.
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