We arrived at the Overhaul in good time. Dad took the horse out of the dray and tied him to a tree. Dave led Bess about, and we stood and watched the shanty-keeper unpacking gingerbeer. Joe asked Dad for sixpence to buy some, but Dad had n't any small change. We remained in front of the booth through most of the day, and ran after any corks that popped out and handed them in again to the shauty-keeper. He did n't offer us anything—not a thing!
"Saddle up for the Overhaul Handicap!" was at last sung out, and Dad, saddle on arm, advanced to where Dave was walking Bess about. They saddled up and Dave mounted, looking as pale as death.
"I don't like ridin' in these boots a bit," he said, with a quiver in his voice.
"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked.
"They're too big altogether."
"Well, take 'em off, then!"
Dave jumped down and pulled them off—leaving his socks on.
More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said "Off!" did n't they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her right from the jump—the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In the first furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herself and the field—she came after the field. At the back of the course you could see the whole of Kyle's selection and two of Jerry Keefe's hay--
