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Updated: May 3, 2025
Five young men toed the mark, crouching with fingertips to the ground and waiting the starter's revolver-shot. Three were in their stocking-feet, and the remaining two wore spiked running-shoes. "Young men's race," Bert read from the program. "An' only one prize twenty-five dollars. See the red-head with the spikes the one next to the outside. San Francisco's set on him winning.
The starter's voice grew husky and his temper hot, but at last the horses were all headed in the right direction, if only for the fraction of a second. Jockey Murphy, scenting a start, had Fieldmouse in motion even as the elastic webbing shot into the air; she was in her racing stride as the starter's voice blared out: "You're off! Go on! Go on!"
The old man walks over to the scales and has himself weighed all regular, declaring a pound overweight for fear of accidents. He gets down as quiet and easy as possible to the starting point, and just in time to walk up steadily with the other horses, when down goes the starter's flag, and 'Off' was the word. Starlight and the Dawsons were down there waiting for him.
He knew that the fever would leave him, once the salmon began to run, just as it had always vanished at the crack of the starter's pistol or the shrill note of the referee's whistle. He was eager for action, eager to find himself possessed of that gloating, gruelling fury that drives men through to the finish line. Meanwhile, he was anxious to divert his mind into other channels.
Around and around swept the three big cars. All the others were practically out of it. The crowd became lively airs. Mile after mile was reeled off. The day was passing. Tired and covered with dust from the track, Tom still sat at the steering wheel. "Two laps more!" cried Mr. Sharp, as the starter's pistol gave this warning. "Can you get away from 'em, Tom?"
That's the starter's bell. Yes we'll score now the fus' heat'll be our wuss. They've got it in fur us they'll set the pace an' try to shet us out an', likely es not, do it. God he'p us Shiloh Cap'n Tom it's only for them, Ben Butler fur them. Clang clang-clang! vigorously. The starter was calling them back.
"'Good-by, three hundred! I says to myself, I can't see good fur the dust, but they pulls Micky out from under the colt, 'n' when I gets another slant, Hamilton's on his feet 'n' the starter's talkin' at Micky. I can see Micky shakin' his head. It ain't long till they puts him up again. "'That's the good game kid! I says out loud. 'Oh, you 'Micky boy! also out loud.
At last the moment came, and the Starter's "Go" was almost simultaneous with Bob's orders to his leader, whose usual dignified and leisurely movements were considerably hastened by the thunderous applause of the spectators. It was a "bully get-away," George and Dan agreed, and only hoped that theirs would be as satisfactory. Bill followed with equal ease, and equal approbation.
Let one of the others set the pace and then you come up at the end. "It sounded easy all right, but I guess both Barney and I were more than a little doubtful about that 'coming up at the end' business. But it was too late to back out then, so we lined up in front of the starter's stand, and when the pistol cracked made a pretty fast getaway.
"Something ails the King," said Cecil calmly; "he is fairly knocked off his legs. Some Vet must look to him; ridden a yard farther he will fall." Words so gently spoken! yet in the single minute that alone had passed since they had left the Starter's Chair, a lifetime seemed to have been centered, alike to Forest King and to his owner.
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