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    At the tap of the drum the battle began. Duane was first on his stride and showed the way around the turn. Here Boston made a run and shortly after entering the stretch was on even terms with him. Head and head they passed the stand. A mighty shout went up from the vast crowd and as they started on the second mile you could hear, “0 on Duane!” “A ,000 on Boston!” “Watch him run him out!” “Stay with him, old white nose!” and a thousand other such exclamations from the friends of each. Rounding the lower turn, Duane having the track, Cornelius took a slight pull on Boston, but on entering the back stretch he made a run and at the half they were nearly lapped. Rounding the upper turn, however, Duane shook him off. Another shout from the backers of Duane and more money goes up. Entering the stretch the game son of Timoleon makes another run at his flying antagonist, and, although he closes up the space, he can only get on Duane’s hip, and in this order, head and hip, they pass the stand and swing around the turn. Cornelius is content to hold this position until he enters the back stretch, when he again calls on Boston; slowly but surely the red coat of Boston inches up and at the half is hid behind Duane. So even are they running that it looks like one horse and one rider; in this position they ran around the upper turn, down the home stretch and enter the fourth mile as even as a carriage team with the deafening shouts of the multitude following them. Rounding the lower turn Steve for the first time takes a pull on Duane, evidently with a view of saving him for the finish; Cornelius on Boston moves to the front, intending to take the track, but Steve has no idea of giving up this advantage, and he keeps Duane moving just close enough to keep Boston on the outside. In this position they race to the head of the stretch. Here Steve begins to make a run; down the stretch they come, hip and head, but in spite of all Cornelius’ efforts and in spite of the long, tireless strides of Boston, the brown son of Hedgford overhauls him when half-way down the stretch, but it has taken the last remnant of his reserve power to do this, and head to head, leap for leap, they strain their hardened muscles. A child’s blanket would have covered them. Both riders were rolling in their saddles from exhaustion, but were lifting and urging all they could. Boston had been running purely on his courage. Cornelius had neither whip nor spur. Steve had on spurs that had more than once in the finish drawn the claret from Duane. “A dead heat!” “A dead heat!” shout the crowd. No. One more stride with a savage dig that sent the rowels home in the quivering flanks of his horse and at the same time lifting his head Steve sends Duane under the wire a winner by a scant head, in 7:52.


    "Guy--you must row on. I'll tell you nothing while you behave like this. It's beastly of you. Look--we're floating to the other side of the river! Guy, do be sensible!"


    Guy Greaves felt almost hysterical himself. "It's all right now, Trixie. Don't cry." He spoke with cheerful reassurance. "I'll row hard, and we shall catch the others up in no time."




    What I had heard and read of the Dalmatian coast had led me to look for the signs of an ancient civilization, not unlike that which I had left in Italy. What impressed me at first sight about Fiume, however, was the brand-new and modern character of everything in view. I do not mean that the city had any of the loose-jointed and straggling newness of some of our western American towns. It had rather the newness and completeness of one of those modern German cities, which seem to have been planned and erected out of hand, at the command of some higher authority. In that part of Germany which I visited I noticed that nothing was allowed to grow up naturally, in the comfortable and haphazard disorder that one finds in some parts of America. This is particularly true of the cities. Everything is tagged and labelled, and ordered with military precision. Even the rose-bushes in the gardens seem to show the effect of military discipline. Trimmed and pruned, they stand up straight, in long and regular rows, as if they were continually presenting arms.

    Frances’ small countenance grew grave too. “I don’t think it can be true life,” she said.

    Down I slid, and back on the home track I started as hard as I could run. I had not gone far when a horse and buggy came up behind me and a moment later I was sobbing on Charley’s breast.


    Dawn deepened into daylight. Up came the winter sun, shouldering its sulky way through dun horizon mists. The day was on. And Ruff and Pitchdark were not yet within a mile of their hiding place.

    This thought sank deep in-to the mind of Mr. Fox, and plans were soon set on foot to see what could be done to get some “i-ron-clads.” Capt. Er-ics-son made a mod-el of a craft ne’er be-fore seen. It had a hull un-der wa-ter, and an i-ron-clad tur-ret which could be turned.


    He turned to the ship's surgeon. "Doc, I'm all yours now, body and soul ... cancel that. Just body!"


    they had pined for an English home while living in exile. More or less unconsciously the little colony of "old Indians" preserved among themselves various propensities acquired during their service abroad. For example, they bought each others' furniture, borrowed and loaned belongings with ready good nature, paid informal visits chiefly in the mornings, quarrelled sometimes about nothing, and were inclined to be exclusive outside their own circle.


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