"When the bugle blows, Miss Goodloe asks me to stay in her box with her while the derby's run. There's twenty thousand people there 'n' I guess the whole bunch has bet on the colt, from the way it sounds when the hosses parade past. You can't hear nothin' but '_Salva-a-tion! Oh, you Salva-a-tion_!'
"They get a nice break all in a line, but when they come by the stand the first time, the colt's layin' at the rail a len'th in front, fightin' fur his head.
"'_Salva-a-tion_!' goes up from the stands in one big yell.
"'_There he goes_!' hollers some swipe across the track, 'n' then everything is quiet.
"Miss Goodloe's got her fingers stuck into my arm till it hurts. But that don't bother me.
"'Isn't it wonderful?' she says, but the pink's gone out of her cheeks. She's real pale . . .
"They never get near the colt. . . . He comes home alone with that big easy, swingin' gallop of his, 'n' goes under the wire still fightin' fur his head.
"Then that crowd goes plumb crazy! Men throws their hats away, 'n' dances around, yellin' till they can't whisper! Miss Goodloe is shakin' so I has to hold her up.
"'Isn't he _grand_? How would you like to own him?' a woman in the next box says to her.
"'I'd love it,' says Miss Goodloe, 'n' busts out cryin'. 'You'll think I'm an awful baby!' she says to me.
"'I don't mind them kind of tears,' I says.
"'Neither do I,' she says, laughin', 'n' dabbin' at her face with a dinky little hankerchiff.
"I wait till they lead the colt out in front of the stand, 'n' put the floral horseshoe round his neck, then I takes Miss Goodloe down to shake hands with the jock.
"'How do you like him?' she says to the jock.
"'Well, ma'am,' he says, 'I've ridden all the good ones, but he's the best hoss I ever has under me!'
"'What's the record fur this race?' I yells across the track to the timer. He points down at the time hung up.
"'Didn't he do it easy?' says the jock to me.
"There's no use to tell you what Salvation done to them Eastern hosses; everybody knows about that. It got so the ginnies would line up in a bunch, every time he starts, 'n' holler: '_They're off--there he goes_!' They does it regular, 'n' pretty soon the crowds get next 'n' then everybody does it. He begins to stale off at Pimlico, so I ships him to Miss Goodloe, 'n' writes her to turn him out fur three or four months.