stacks between her and the others. We did n't follow her any further.
After the race was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad was n't to be found anywhere.
Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. "Ain't y' goin' to pull the saddle off?" Joe asked.
"No," he said; "I ain't. You don't want everyone to see her back, do you?"
Joe wished he had sixpence.
About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with another man—an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out.
"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump with it; "besh bred mare in the worl'." The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't.
"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh' ain't? L'ere—ever y' name is—betcher pound sh' is."
Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he had n't come to the races.
"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad—"short in her gallops." Then a short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into Dad's and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there must have been a row.
