When the bell sounded and Patsy went out to warm up, he felt as if he
were riding on air. Some of the jockeys laughed at his get-up, but
there was something in him--or under him, maybe--that made him scorn
their derision. He saw a sea of faces about him, then saw no more.
Only a shining white track loomed ahead of him, and a restless steed
was cantering with him around the curve. Then the bell called him back
to the stand.

They did not get away at first, and back they trooped. A second trial
was a failure. But at the third they were off in a line as straight
as a chalk-mark. There were Essex and Firefly, Queen Bess and
Mosquito, galloping away side by side, and Black Boy a neck ahead.
Patsy knew the family reputation of his horse for endurance as well as
fire, and began riding the race from the first. Black Boy came of
blood that would not be passed, and to this his rider trusted. At the
eighth the line was hardly broken, but as the quarter was reached
Black Boy had forged a length ahead, and Mosquito was at his flank.
Then, like a flash, Essex shot out ahead under whip and spur, his
jockey standing straight in the stirrups.

The crowd in the stand screamed; but Patsy smiled as he lay low over
his horse's neck. He saw that Essex had made her best spurt. His only
fear was for Mosquito, who hugged and hugged his flank. They were
nearing the three-quarter post, and he was tightening his grip on the
black. Essex fell back; his spurt was over. The whip fell unheeded on
his sides. The spurs dug him in vain.

Black Boy's breath touches the leader's ear. They are neck and
neck--nose to nose. The black stallion passes him.