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last fence almost together, and neck and neck came thundering down the straight. The whips were out on both horses. Ann’s heart was beating wildly. Could Nigger win? The crowd were alternately roaring “Nigger wins!”—“Acepot”—“Nigger,” as they raced on.

But suddenly with a chill pang of apprehension Ann was aware that Nigger’s effort was unavailing. He had a great heart—he’d never say die—he’d battle on gamely to the end—answer gallantly to any call made upon him, but . . . he was rolling in his stride—his speed was checked! He stumbled on, then staggered, and then fell. The jockey was thrown clear—a length ahead; Acepot passed the judges’ box alone, and the rest of the field came after. But Nigger lay as he had fallen—quite still.

The jockey was back, standing over him—the crowd surged out over the green turf of the course. The police were trying to keep them back. Rodney Marsh was there—some of the racing officials—and then in the little ring the police had cleared, Ann saw the body of the old black horse dragged out beyond the rails, to the spot where so short a time before he’d cleared the sod wall and the water jump with such a gallant stride.

Ann couldn’t look amy more. Her eyes were blurred. She knew before she heard the murmurs round about her that Nigger had run his last race—that he was dead. Oh, poor, poor, Rodney! His best friend—that’s what he’d called Nigger. And to lose him like this—to know that the horse had struggled up to the end to do all that was required of him. He had been set too great a task, but he’d done his best—