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porary leaders. Max O'Rell and Rainbow are being outfooted by the rushing David. Now he is ahead, and Rainbow and Max O’Rell and Seltzer are abreast close behind. But Billy has taken advantage of the momentary lead to snatch the pole, and is close behind the leader. Now they are near the last turn. Rainbow and Max O’Rell are beginning to pound heavily, and are dropping farther and farther back. But what black nose is this which has come up close to Seltzer's flank? Billy glances around. Wonder of wonders, it is Mortality-a rank outside.. It looks as though there was to be a surprise-party. Inch by inch the new-comer is gaining. How Billy longs to get into the home-stretch, so that he can push the mare a bit! Mortality is coming on like a whirlwind. David is close ahead. Seltzer will be in a pocket in another dozen yards, with too short a distance left to go round on the outside, keep up the pace, and have an even show at the finish. It must be now or never, instructions or no instructions. He loosens up on the mare, calls to her, taps her lightly, and feels her respond as she straightens out under him.

They gain a foot or two, but still Mortality hangs close at Billy's saddle and David's tail brushes Seltzer's nose. It isn't enough. Something must be done, quick.

“Forgive me, ol' girl," ejaculates Billy, as he raises his whip and, with almost a sob that he is obliged to do it, brings the lash down sharply on the mare's Alanks. With a maddened bound she springs ahead,

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her ears laid back and her nose stretched out almost on a line with her neck. Billy swings her out, and they come straining down the stretch, with the mare gaining inch by inch on the leader; now she is on his quarter—the saddle; a few bounds, and it is neck and neck.

Mortality has swung out, and is following close behind, third from the pole. The wire is terribly

Whoever wins will win by a short head. Suddenly something happens. A nurse-girl with her escort down close by the fence has become too deeply interested, and her little charge has toddled out upon the track, and stands piteously helpless right in the path of the flying racers. Billy sees it all in an instant—the horrified expression on the nurse-girl's face and the dazed look of the little toddler on the track ahead. He can guide Seltzer around her, he thinks, but nothing can save the baby from the rushing "field" behind.

What can he do? A single false move, and the race is lost. It won't be his fault if the child is crushed, anyway, and to win the race means so much! But, someway, something in the appealing face of the baby makes him think of the little sister asleep in the tiny English church-yard so far away over the water, and-he can't help it, he must do something. But what?

Like a flash he remembers a picture he once saw of a brave hussar who snatched a little child from in front of a flying regiment of horse; but this was so different! He knew he would fail; but he must try

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With one hard pull on the reins he drops them, and with a cry to Seltzer he slips his left foot through the stirrup and draws the slender iron up to his knee, kicks his other foot clear, and throws himself wildly to the right, straight down over the horse's side. There he hangs, by one knee, head down, his arms outstretched, and his little body swinging wildly against the racer's side at every bound.

Seltzer falters in her pace and drops back. With a wild sweep of his arms Billy clasps the little form close and lifts the baby clear of the ground as the horses hurl by. The strain is a terrible one, and he can only drag himself up a little way. His leg is almost broken by the sharp stirrup. He can only bend himself up as far as possible, close his eyes, and hold tight. He hears the wild shouts from the crowds as David sweeps by, a winner. On they go, for it seems a mile, but in reality only a dozen rods. Seltzer slackens and stops. A dozen stable-boys are springing at her head. Some one snatches the baby from his arms, and Billy drops down and steals hurriedly away to a quiet corner of the stables. It has all come

over him now. Seltzer has lost. His dreams of making a name for himself are gone. Mr. Burnett will never allow him to ride again. His head is whirling yet. He feels deathly sick. Everything looks black, and he wishes he were dead.

Sinking down on the straw, he buries his face and sobs as though his faithful little heart would break.

“Well, young man.” It is Mr. Burnett.

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I lost the race,

“Eh ?

Billy does not look up. “ I'm

sorry sir," he sobs. “I couldn't 'elp it, you know, sir.

. She'd 'a' been killed, sir—the baby."

Well, I should say she would. And how in heaven's name it happened that you weren't beats me.” " I'm sorry sir, I didn't win.'

What?-didn't win? Why, boy, I'd rather have my jockey do that thing than have my horses win a dozen races. Yes, a hundred,” adds young Mr. Burnett, after computing the matter more carefully. “But the money, sir, wot's been lost ?”

except the purse. All bets on Seltzer declared off. Come along up in the stand, now ; they're all howling for you." And Billy went.


56 Not a cent,


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COW hard, when those who do not wish

To lend, thus lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers-folks that fish

With literary hooks.
Who call and take some favorite tome,

But never read it through ;
They thus complete their set at home

By making one at you.

I, of my "Spenser” quite bereft,

Last winter sore was shaken;
Of " Lamb " I've but a quarter left,

Nor could I save my“ Bacon;"
And then I saw my “ Crabbe" at last,

Like Hamlet, backward go,
And, as the tide was ebbing fast,

Of course I lost my “Rowe."

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My “ Mallet” served to knock me down,

Which makes me thus a talker, And once, when I was out of town,

My“ Johnson " proved a “ Walker." While studying o'er the fire one day

My “Hobbes" amidst the smoke, They bore my “Colman ” clean away,

And carried off my “Coke."

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They picked my “ Locke,” to me far more

Than Bramah's patent worth, And now my losses I deplore, Without a “ Home

on earth. If once a book you let them lift,

Another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing “ Swift,”

As swiftly went my “Steele.”

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf,

Where late he stood elated, But, what is strange, my “Pope" himself

Is excommunicated.

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