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"That's the American Amba.s.sador," muttered the old man as they pa.s.sed.
"Come with Lord Derby's party. Great scholar, they say. That's his daughter."
The tall Amba.s.sador with the stoop paused to let the other couple go by.
Then he nodded at the young man's back.
"Mr. Silver," he murmured in his daughter's ear. "And the old gentleman's _her_ father."
The girl was alert at once. She, too, had heard the tales.
"Is it?" she cried. "Where's she?"
"I don't know," the other answered.
"I _hope_ they win," said the girl--"in some ways."
Her father smiled.
"You're no American," he scoffed. "You're a woman. That's all you are."
CHAPTER XLVIII
The Star-Spangled Jacket
As the two men took their places, the parade in front of the Grand Stand was in full swing.
There was a big field: some thirty starters in all.
The favourite, as the top weight, led them by at a walk.
She was quite at her ease, yet on fire as always, s.n.a.t.c.hing at her bit in characteristic style. Chukkers rode her with long and easy rein, as though to show he trusted her. As she came by, the Grand Stand began to sing with one voice:
_The maid of our mountains-- Moca.s.sin's her name!
The speed of the panther; The heart of the flame; The Belle of the Blue Ridge, The hope of the plain, The Queen of Kentucky, O, lift her again--_
Chanted thus by tens of thousands of voices, singing round the course and up into the heavens, and culminating in the roaring slogan--
_Moca.s.sin! Moca.s.sin! Moca.s.sin!_
the simple song became for the moment clothed in vicarious majesty.
Jim Silver felt the thrill of it, as did his companion.
"Mar'd like that," said Old Mat sentimentally. "She's same as me. She likes hymns."
The object of the enthusiasm seemed unconscious of it.
She came by at that swift pattering walk of hers--like a girl going marketing as her lovers said--amid the comments of her admirers.
"She's all right, sure!"
"Don't she nip along?"
"He looks grim, Chukkers do."
"Yes; he's for it this time."
"They've injected her--American style."
"Never!"
"They have, my son. Trust Jaggers. Can't leave it to Nature. Must always go one better."
"Ikey's got two other horses in."
"Which?"
"There's old Jackaroo--in the purple and gold, Rushton riding."
"Which is the second Dewhurst horse?"
"This in the canary. Flibberty-gibbet. Little Boy Braithwaite."
"He's only a nipper."
"He can ride, though."
"They're to nurse the crack through the squeeze."
"She'll want nursing."
"She's all right if she stands up till Beecher's Brook."
"She'll stand up. Trust Chukkers."
"He's got nothing to beat."
"Only Moonlighter."
"Which _is_ the Irish horse?"
"The gray there. Cerise and white."
"Flashy thing."
