At the northern end of
the course was a group of ten ponies, out of which he found no
difficulty in discovering two, a black and a cream-color, and
recognizing in them the property of his brother and himself. In his
opinion they were the handsomest animals in the group.
At the fourth signal--a pistol-shot--the ponies got away. Down the
three-hundred-yard track they sped, and over the last fourth the black
and cream-color led by a length, crossing the goal with Sancho half a
neck in advance. Of course the little sergeant knew they would beat,
and in spite of his sorrow at the loss of his ponies--intensified by
this stolen sight of them--he could not refrain from clapping his
hands and saying, aloud, "Bravo, Sancho! Bravita, Chiquita!"
The subdued cheer was promptly answered by a succession of barks at
the foot of the tree, and Vic, interpreting the boy's clapping and
speech to mean that she was free to go, dashed off at the top of her
speed for the race-course, and to its southern end, where the victors
were now held by their dismounted riders.
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