"You called the turn." Even Ned's baritone had risen to a false-keyed
tenor; he was standing on his toes, peering over the heads of taller men
in front.

Allis brushed from her eyes the tears of sympathy that had welled into
them, and, raising her voice, spoke bravely, clinging to the vain hope:
"Lucretia is game, father--she may win yet--the race is not lost till
they're past the post."

Then her voice died away, and she kept pleading over and over in her
heart, "Come on Lucretia--come on, brave little mare! Is she gaining,
father--can you see?"

"She'll never make it up," Porter replied, as he watched the jumble of
red, and yellow, and black patterned into a trailing banner, which
waved, and vibrated, and streamed in the glittering sunlight, a furlong
down the Course--and the tail of it was his own blue, whitestarred
jacket. In front, still a good two lengths in front, gleamed scarlet,
like an evil eye, the all red of Lauzanne's colors.

"Where is Lucretia, father?" the girl asked again, stretching her slight
figure up in a vain endeavor to see over the shoulders of those in
front.

"She had an opening there," Porter replied, speaking his thoughts more
than answering the girl, "but the boy pulled her into the bunch on the
rail. He doesn't want to get through. Oh!" he exclaimed, as though
some one had struck him in the face.