Pop's elbows stuck straight out, he held the reins high and leaned far over Smoky's neck, his eyes glaring.

Bud--oh, never worry about Bud! In the years that lay between thirteen and twenty-one Bud had learned a good many things, and one of them was how to get out of a horse all the speed there was in him.
They went past the quarter-post and a furlong beyond before either could pull up.

Pop was pale and triumphant, and breathing harder than his mount.
"Here 's your dollar, Pop--and don't you talk in your sleep!" Bud admonished, smiling as he held out the dollar, but with an anxious tone in his voice.

"If this is the best running horse you've got in the valley, I may get some action, next Sunday!" Pop dismounted, took the dollar with a grin and mounted Boise--and that in spite of the fact that Boise was keyed up and stepping around and snorting for another race.

Bud watched Pop queerly, remembering how feeble had been the old man whom he had met at the corral.
"Say, Pop, you ought to race a little every day," he bantered.