The Bishop of Cottontown Part 57

It was the last afternoon of the fair, and the great race was to come off at three o'clock.

There is nothing so typical as a fair in the Tennessee Valley. It is the one time in the year when everybody meets everybody else. Besides being the harvest time of crops, of friends.h.i.+ps, of happy interchange of thought and feeling, it is also the harvest time of perfected horseflesh.

The forenoon had been given to social intercourse, the display of livestock, the exhibits of deft women fingers, of housewife skill, of the tradesman, of the merchant, of cotton--cotton, in every form and shape.

At noon, under the trees, lunch had been spread--a bountiful lunch, spreading as it did from the soft gra.s.s of one tree to that of another--as family after family spread their linen--an almost unbroken line of fried chicken, flanked with pickles and salad, and all the rich profusion of the country wife's pantry.

And now, after lunch, the grand stand had been quickly filled, for the fame of the great race had spread up and down the valley, and the valley dearly loved a horse-race.

Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse, but this race was three thousand!

Three thousand! It would buy a farm. It would buy thirty mules, and twice that many steers. It would make a family independent for life.

And to-day it was given to see which one, of three rich men, owned the best horse.

No wonder that everybody for miles around was there.

St.u.r.dy farmers with fat daughters, jaded wives, and l.u.s.ty sons who stepped awkwardly on everything on the promenade, and in trying to get off stepped on themselves. They went about, with broad, strong, stooping shoulders, and short coats that sagged in the middle, dropping under-jaws, and eyes that were kindly and shrewd.

The town people were better dressed and fed than the country people, and but only half way in fas.h.i.+on between the city and country, yet knowing it not.

The infield around the judges' stand, and in front of the grand-stand, was thronged with surreys and buggies, and filled with ladies and their beaux. A ripple of excitement had gone up when Richard Travis drove up in a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns and alive with merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmore was supposed to be on the driver's box with the owner, she was not there.

Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding--Trumps, and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's mare--Trombine--had her partisans who were also vociferous. But Travis's entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoa.r.s.e.

Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spun merrily around the track, and Col. Troup joined him with Trombine, and the audience watched the three trotters warm up and shouted or applauded each as it spun past the grand-stand.

Then the starting-judge held up a silk bag in the center of the wire.

It held three thousand dollars in gold, and it swung around and then settled, to a s.h.i.+ning, s.h.i.+mmering silken sack, swaying the wire as it flashed in the sun.

The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers, being gentlemen, were heedless of rules and drove on around still warming up.

The starting-judge was about to clang again--this time more positively--when there appeared at the draw-gate a new comer, the sight of whose horse and appointments set the grand-stand into a wild roar of mingled laughter and applause.

As he drove demurely on the track, he lifted quaintly and stiffly his old hat and smiled.

He was followed by the village blacksmith, whose very looks told that they meant business and were out for blood. The audience did not like the looks of this blacksmith--he was too stern for the fun they were having. But they recognized the shambling creature who followed him as Bud Billings, and they shouted with laughter when they saw he had a sponge and bucket!

"Bud Billings a swipe!"

Cottontown wanted to laugh, but it was too tired. It merely grinned and nudged one another. For Travis had given a half holiday and all Cottontown was there.

The old man's outfit brought out the greatest laughter. The cart was a big cheap thing, new and brightly repainted, and it rattled frightfully. The harness was a combination--the saddle was made of soft sheep skin, the wool next to the horse, as were also the head-stall of the bridle, the breast-strap and the breeching. The rest of it was undressed leather, and the old man had evidently made it himself.

But Ben Butler--never had he looked so fine. Blind, cat-hammed and pacing along,--but his sides were slick and hard, his quarters rubber.

The old man had not been training him on the sandy stretches of Sand Mountain for nothing.

A man with half an eye could have seen it, but the funny people in the grand-stand saw only the harness, and the blind sunken eyes of the old horse. So they shouted and cat-called and jeered. The outfit ambled up to the starting judge, and the old driver handed him fifty dollars.

The starter laughed as he recovered himself, and winking at the others, asked:

"What's this for, old man?"

"Oh, jes' thought I'd j'ine in--" smiling.

"Why, you can't do it. What's your authority?"

The Bishop ran his hand in his pocket, while Bud held Ben Butler's head and kept saying with comical seriousness: "Whoa--whoa, sah!"

Pending it all, and seeing that more talk was coming, Ben Butler promptly went to sleep. Finally the old man brought out a faded poster. It was Travis's challenge and conditions.

"Jes' read it," said the old driver, "an' see if I ain't under the conditions."

The starting judge read: "_Open to the Tennessee Valley--trot or pace. Parties entering, other than the match makers, to pay fifty dollars at the wire._"

"Phew!" said the starting judge, as he scratched his head. Then he stroked his chin and re-read the conditions, looking humorously down over his gla.s.ses at the queer combination before him.

The audience took it in and began to shout: "Let him in! Let him in!

It's fair!"

But others felt outraged and shouted back: "No--put him out! Put him out!"

The starting judge clanged his bell again, and the other three starters came up.

Flecker, good-natured and fat, his horse in a warming-up foam, laughed till he swayed in the sulky. Col. Troup, dignified and reserved, said nothing. But Travis swore.

"It's preposterous!--it will make the race a farce. We're out for blood and that purse. This is no comedy," he said.

The old man only smiled and said: "I'm sorry to spile the sport of gentlemen, but bein' gentlemen, I know they will stan' by their own rules."

"It's here in black and white, Travis," said the starter, "You made it yourself."

"Oh, h.e.l.l," said Travis hotly, "that was mere form and to satisfy the Valley. I thought the entrance fee would bar any outsider."

"But it didn't," said the Judge, "and you know the rules."

"Let him start, let the Hill-Billy start!" shouted the crowd, and then there was a tumult of hisses, groans and cat-calls.

Then it was pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth that it was the old Cottontown preacher, and the excitement grew intense.

It was the most comical, most splendid joke ever played in the Valley. Travis was not popular, neither was the dignified Col. Troup.

Up to this time the crowd had not cared who won the purse; nor had they cared which of the pretty trotters received the crown. It meant only a little more swagger and show and money to throw away.

But here was something human, pathetic. Here was a touch of the stuff that made the grand-stand kin to the old man. The disreputable cart, the lifeless, blind old pacer, the home-made harness, the seediness of it all--the pathos.

Here was the quaint old man, who, all his life, had given for others, here was the ex-overseer and the ex-trainer of the Travis stables, trying to win the purse from gentlemen.