The Bishop of Cottontown Part 58

"Ten to one," said a prosperous looking man, as he looked quietly on--"the Bishop wants it for charity or another church. Like as not he knows of some poverty-stricken family he's going to feed."

"If that's so," shouted two young fellows who were listening, and who were partisans of Flecker of Tennessee, "if that's the way of it, we'll go over and take a hand in seeing that he has fair play."

They arose hastily, each s.h.i.+fting a pistol in his pocket, and b.u.t.ted through the crowd which was thronged around the Judge's stand, where the old man sat quietly smiling from his cart, and Travis and Troup were talking earnestly.

"d.a.m.ned if I let Trombine start against such a combination as that, sah. I'll drive off the track now, sah--d.a.m.ned if I don't, sah!"

But the two young men had spoken to big fat Flecker of Tennessee, and he arose in his sulky-seat and said: "Now, gentlemen, clear the track and let us race. We will let the old man start. Say, old man," he laughed, "you won't feel bad if we shut you out the fust heat, eh?"

"No," smiled the Bishop--"an' I 'spec you will. Why, the old hoss ain't raced in ten years."

"Oh, say, I thought you were going to say twenty," laughed Flecker.

Some rowdy had crowded around the old cart and attempted to unscrew the axle tap. But some one reached over the head of the crowd and gripped him where his shoulder and arm met, and pulled him forward and twirled him around like a top.

It was enough. It was ten minutes before he could lift up his arm at all; it felt dead.

"Don't hurt n.o.body, Jack," whispered the old man, "be keerful."

The crowd were for the old man. They still shouted--"Fair play, fair play--let him start," and they came thronging and crowding on the track.

"Clear the track," cried the starting-judge to a deputy sheriff in charge--"I'll let him start."

This set the crowd in a roar.

"Square man," they yelled--"Square man!"

Travis bit his lips and swore.

"Why, d.a.m.n him," he said, "we'll lose him the first heat. I'll shut him out myself."

"We will, sah, we will!" said Col. Troup. "But if that rattling contraption skeers my mare, I'll appeal to the National a.s.sociation, sah. I'll appeal--sah," and he drove off up the stretch, hotter than his mare.

And now the track was cleared--the grand stand hummed and buzzed with excitement.

It was indeed the greatest joke ever played in the Tennessee Valley.

Not that there was going to be any change in the race, not that the old preacher had any chance, driving as he did this bundle of ribs and ugliness, and hitched to such a cart--but that he dared try it at all, and against the swells of horsedom. There would be one heat of desperate fun and then--

A good-natured, spasmodic gulp of laughter ran clear through the grand-stand, and along with it, from excited groups, from the promenade, from the track and infield and stables, even, came such expressions as these:

"Worth ten dollars to see it!"

"Wouldn't take a hoss for the sight!"

"If he _did_ happen to beat that trio of sports!"

"Boss, it's gwinter to be a hoss race from wire to wire!"

"Oh, pshaw! one heat of fun--they'll shut him out!"

In heart, the sympathy of the crowd was all with the old preacher.

The old man had a habit when keyed to high pitch, emotionally, of talking to himself. He seemed to regard himself as a third person, and this is the way he told it, heat by heat:

"Fus' heat, Ben Butler--Now if we can manage to save our distance an' leave the flag a few yards, we'll be doin' mighty well. Long time since you stretched them ole muscles of yo's in a race--long time--an' they're tied up and sore. Ever' heat'll be a wuck out to you till you git hot. If I kin only stay in till you git hot--(_Clang--clang--clang_). 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. G.o.d he'p us--s.h.i.+loh--Cap'n Tom--it's only for them, Ben Butler--fur them.

(_Clang!--Clang!_) Slow there--heh--heh--Steady--ah-h!"

_Clang--clang-clang!_ vigorously. The starter was calling them back.

They had scored down for the first time, but the hot-heads had been too fast for the old ambler. In their desire to shut him out, they rushed away like a whirlwind. The old pacer followed, rocking and rolling in his lazy way. He wiggled, shuffled, skipped, and when the strain told on the sore old muscles, he winced, and was left at the wire!

The crowd jeered and roared with laughter.

"He'll never get off!"

"He's screwed there--fetch a screw driver!"

"Pad his head, he'll fall on it nex'!"

"Go back, gentlemen, go back," shouted the starter, "and try again.

The old pacer was on a break"--_Clang--clang--clang!_ and he jerked his bell vigorously.

Travis was furious as he drove slowly back. "I had to pull my mare double to stop her," he called to the starter. "We were all aligned but the old pacer--why didn't you let us go?"

"Because I am starting these horses by the rules, Mr. Travis. I know my business," said the starter hotly.

Col. Troup was blue in the face with rage.

Flecker laughed.

They all turned again and came down, the numbers on the drivers' arms showing 1, 2, 3, 4--Travis, Troup, Flecker, and the old Bishop, respectively.

"Ben Butler, ole hoss, this ain't no joke--you mus' go this time. We ain't goin' to meetin'--Stretch them ole legs as you did!--oh, that's better--ef we could only score a few more times--look!--ah!"

_Clang--clang--clang!_

This time it was Col. Troup's mare. She broke just at the wire.

"She saved us that time, Ben Butler. We wus two rods behind--"

They came down the third time. "Now, thank G.o.d, he's jes' beginnin'

to unlimber," chuckled the old man as the old pacer, catching on to the game and warming to his work, was only a length behind at the wire, as they scored the fourth time, when Flecker's mare flew up in the air and again the bell clanged.

The crowd grew impatient. The starter warned them that time was up and that he'd start them the next time they came down if he had the ghost of a chance.

Again they aligned and came thundering down. The old man was pale and silent, and Ben Butler felt the lines telegraphing nervous messages to his bitted mouth; but all he heard was: "_s.h.i.+loh--Cap'n Tom--Steady, old hoss!_"

"Go!"