It was scarcely dawn when we began preparing for a start to the races.
Dave, after spending fully an hour trying in vain to pull on Mother's
elastic-side boots, decided to ride in his own heavy bluchers. We went
with Dad in the dray. Mother would n't go; she said she did n't want to
see her son get killed, and warned Dad that if anything happened the blame
would for ever be on his head.
We arrived at the Overhaul in good time. Dad took the horse out of the
dray and tied him to a tree. Dave led Bess about, and we stood and
watched the shanty-keeper unpacking gingerbeer. Joe asked Dad for sixpence
to buy some, but Dad had n't any small change. We remained in front of
the booth through most of the day, and ran after any corks that popped out
and handed them in again to the shanty-keeper. He did n't offer us
anything--not a thing!
"Saddle up for the Overhaul Handicap!" was at last sung out, and Dad,
saddle on arm, advanced to where Dave was walking Bess about. They saddled
up and Dave mounted, looking as pale as death.
"I don't like ridin' in these boots a bit," he said, with a quiver in
his voice.
"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked.
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