Another cheer from the stand, and again Patsy smiles as they turn into
the stretch. Mosquito has gained a head. The colored boy flashes one
glance at the horse and rider who are so surely gaining upon him, and
his lips close in a grim line. They are half-way down the stretch, and
Mosquito's head is at the stallion's neck.

For a single moment Patsy thinks of the sick woman at home and what
that race will mean to her, and then his knees close against the
horse's sides with a firmer dig. The spurs shoot deeper into the
steaming flanks. Black Boy shall win; he must win. The horse that has
taken away his father shall give him back his mother. The stallion
leaps away like a flash, and goes under the wire--a length ahead.

Then the band thundered, and Patsy was off his horse, very warm and
very happy, following his mount to the stable. There, a little later,
Brackett found him. He rushed to him, and flung his arms around him.

"You little devil," he cried, "you rode like you were kin to that
hoss! We've won! We've won!" And he began sticking banknotes at the
boy. At first Patsy's eyes bulged, and then he seized the money and
got into his clothes.

"Goin' out to spend it?" asked Brackett.

"I'm goin' for a doctah fu' my mother," said Patsy, "she's sick."

"Don't let me lose sight of you."

"Oh, I'll see you again. So long," said the boy.