coal and ashes, as well as for ventilation and forced draught.

The track was in surprisingly good condition, but there were streaks of damp, lumpy track throughout the long back and home-stretch. This favored The Rogue; told against the fast sprinters Swallow and Emetic. After the two-yard gap left by the leaders came a bunch of four, with The Rogue in the center.

"Pocketed already!" yelled some derisively. Garrison never heeded. Emetic was the fastest sprinter there that day; a sprinter, not a stayer. There is a lot of luck in a handicap. If a sprinter with a light weight up can get away first, she may never be headed till the finish. But it had been a clear break, and Swallow had caught on.

The pace was heart-breaking; murderous; terrific. Emetic's rider had taken a chance and lost it; lost it when McGloin caught him. Swallow was a better stayer; as fast as a sprinter. But if Emetic could not spread-eagle the field, she could set a pace that would try the stamina and lungs of Pegasus. And she did. First furlong in thirteen seconds. Record for the Aqueduct. A record sent flying to flinders. My! that was going some. Quarter-mile in twenty-four flat. Another record wiped out. What a pace!

A great cry went up. Could Emetic hold out? Could she stay, after all? Could she do what she had never done before? Swallow's backers began to blanch. Why, why was McGloin pressing so hard? Why? why? Emetic must tire. Must, must, must. Why would McGloin insist on taking that pace? It was a mistake, a mistake. The race had twisted his brain. The fight for leadership had biased his judgment. If he was not careful that lean, hungry-looking horse, with Garrison up, would swing out from the bunch, fresh, unkilled by pace-following, and beat him to a froth. . . .

There, there! Look at that! Look at that! God! how Garrison is riding! Riding as he never rode before. Has he come back? Look at him. . . . I told you so. I told you so. There comes that black fiend across-- It's a foul! No, no. He's clear. He's clear. There he goes. He's clear. He's slipped the bunch, skinned a leader's nose, jammed against the rail. Look how he's hugging it! Look! He's hugging McGloin's heels. He's waiting, waiting. . . . There, there! It's Emetic. See, she's wet from head to hock. She is, she is! She's tiring; tiring fast. . . . See! . . . McGloin, McGloin, McGloin! You're riding, boy, riding. Good work. Snappy work. You've got Emetic dead to rights. You were all right in following her pace. I knew you were. I knew she would tire. Only two furlongs-- What? What's that? . . . Garrison? That plug Rogue? . . . Oh, Red, Red! . . . Beat him, Red, beat him! It's only a bluff. He's not in your class. He can't hang on. . . . Beat him, Red, beat him! Don't let a has-been put it all over you! . . . Ride, you cripple, ride! . . . What? Can't you shake him off? . . . Slug him! . . . Watch out! He's trying for the rail. Crowd him, crowd him! . . . What's the matter with you? . . . Where's your nerve? You can't shake him off! Beat him down the stretch! He's fresh. He wasn't the fool to follow pace, like you. . . . What's the matter with you? He's crowding you--look out, there! Jam him! . . . He's pushing you hard. . . . Neck and neck, you fool. That black fiend can't be stopped. . . . Use the whip! Red, use the whip! It's all you've left. Slug her, slug her! That's it, that's it! Slug speed into her. Only a furlong to go. . . . Come on, Red, come on! . . .

Here they come, in a smother of dust. Neck and neck down the stretch. The red and white of the Morgan stable; the blue and gold of the Desha. It's Swallow. No, no, it's The Rogue. Back and forth, back and forth stormed the rival names. The field was pandemonium. "Cottonton" was a mass of frantic arms, raucous voices, white faces. Drake, his pudgy hands whanging about like semaphore-signals in distress, was blowing his lungs out: "Come on, kid come on! You've got him now! He can't last! Come on, come on!--for my sake, for your sake, for anybody's sake, but only come!"

Game Swallow's eyes had a blue film over them. The heart-breaking pace-following had told. Red's error of judgment had told. The "little less" had told. A frenzied howl went up. "Garrison! Garrison! Garrison!" The name that had once meant so much now meant--everything. For in a swirl of dust and general undiluted Hades, the horses had stormed past the judges' stand. The great Carter was lost and won.

Swallow, with a thin streamer of blood threading its way from her nostrils, was a beaten horse; a game, plucky, beaten favorite. It was all over. Already The Rogue's number had been posted. It was all over; all over. The finish of a heart-breaking fight; the establishing of a new record for the Aqueduct. And a name had been replaced in its former high niche. The has-been had come back.