Goosey Gander was harnessed now.

Old Mat made slowly toward the buggy.

The crowd, which had been popping off its feu-de-joie of jokes, steadied
into silence to watch the old man climb to his seat.

"Someone to see you, Mr. Woodburn," came a voice in the silence.

"Indeed," panted the old man, his heavy shoulders rising and falling.
"Who's that?"

There was a movement in the crowd, which parted. At the farther end of
the lane thus made, a flashy young gypsy was seen, with a somnolent old
mare on a halter.

"There, Mr. Woodburn!" called the gypsy in a hoarse staccato voice.
"There she is--your sort to the tick. Black Death blood. Throw you a
National winner and all."

The old man cast his shrewd blue eye over the mare.

She was old and rough as the halter that adorned her drooping head; but
there was no mistaking her quality any more than that her one aim in
life was to go to sleep.

"Yes, she's a lady all right," said the old man.

"Black Death mare, sir," reiterated the gypsy. "Out o' Vendetta. Carry
the young lady a dream."