"There is a true race-horse," Parker cried exultantly. "I once won a
ten-thousand-dollar purse with a dog that wasn't fit to appear on the
same track with that Panchito."
The big chestnut thudded by below them, stretched to the limit of his
endurance, passed what would have been the finish had the race been a
mile and a sixteenth, and galloped up the track with the broken
bridle-rein dangling. He slowed down as he came to the other horses in
the race, now jogging back to the judge's stand, and one of the _cholo_
youths spurred alongside of him, caught the dangling rein and led him
back to the judge's stand.
Kay's face was a little bit white as she smiled up at her father and
Farrel. "The old darling ran away with me," she called.
Farrel was instantly at her side and had lifted her out of the saddle.
She clung to him for the barest moment, trembling with fear and
excitement, before turning to examine Panchito, from whom Pablo had
already stripped the saddle. He was badly blown, as trembly as the
girl herself, and dripping with sweat, but when Pablo slipped the
headstall on him and commenced to walk him up and down to "cool him
out," Don Mike's critical eye failed to observe any evil effects from
the long and unaccustomed race.
John Parker came down out of the grand stand, his thumb still tightly
pressing the stem of his stop-watch, which he thrust under Farrel's
nose.
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