By this time McBride was fairly jumping up and down in his seat.
"Good boy," he cried. "Now show him your heels. Push him, boy, push him. Palo'mine is iron. Push him. Give him the quirt."
Halsey of course did not hear this advice. He did not hear anything from the crowd. He only heard the singing wind in his ears, and the pounding hoofs, and the labored breathing of the straining thoroughbreds.
Once again he leaned forward close to Palo'mine's neck, that his frantically racing horse might the better feel the urge of his body and called upon him for more speed, at the same time striking him lightly with the quirt. Yes, Palo'mine had more speed in him. Halsey had known it all the time, and he had still more, but Halsey was saving that for old Red Bird, and the last eighth of a mile. Everything depended upon the home stretch.
Inch by inch and foot by foot they drew
