: A Fearful Responsibility and Other Stories by Howells William Dean - Manners and customs Fiction

@FreeBooksTue 06 Jun, 2023

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Chapter. Page.

CLIQUOT.

Another jockey had been killed on the race-course. The utmost excitement prevailed. The magnificent animal which had caused the death reared and plunged in the hands of a groom, his foam-covered sides catching the dust from his flying heels. The crowd poured and surged from the stand, while the band still played. The two other horses were led away, one quiet enough, but the other, a black gelding, fretting and sidling through the throng.

Mr. Emory, the owner of the restless stallion, hurried down the steps of the grand stand. He was a tall blond, and wore a soft gray hat. He grew a shade paler as he saw the dead man raised from the ground by two hostlers, his broken neck dangling over the arm of one of them as they bore him through the gate.

"Poor fellow!" he muttered, "and he thought he could ride!"

He whispered a few words to his groom, then asked a policeman to clear a passage, that his horse might be led away, a thing not easily accomplished, as with trembling limbs and quivering nostrils the beautiful creature rose repeatedly in his tracks, while the man swung to and fro at his bit. At length, he sprang forward and rushed for the stable; breaking loose beyond the gate, he dashed madly into his stall, when the door was closed upon him, while the crowd yielded and swayed and dashed about, in that aimless, foolish, reckless way so often noticed under such circumstances.

Of course, there was the usual flutter and stir on the ladies' stand--a shutting of fans, a rustle of silk, and the starting forward of some excitable ones. Exclamations were heard of "How horrible!" "Oh! I wish I'd never come!" or, "We women have no business here!" while others thought, "I would not have missed it, dreadful though it is!"

The race was off--thousands of dollars staked and only one heat over. Which horse had won?

Now the police were busy, for the dead man's form and the maddened stallion no longer held the rabble at bay. Tongues began to wag fast and faster, and hot and hotter grew the discussions about the track and pool stands. Yells of the officials for the police to clear the sward for the next race filled the air, and, finally, when the judge tapped the bell and the crier announced that the race would come off the next day, a little order was restored and the band began to blow its loudest, as a couple of fillies trotted through the gate.

But the excitement was over; and before long the stand was half-empty, while the soft roll of carriage wheels passed again and again through the exit and the women were gone.

Neil Emory walked over to his stable and gave a few directions to his groom, who had succeeded in partially quieting his racer; then, turning, he hailed a handsome carriage which was awaiting him a few steps beyond the course. His companion and friend, Reginald Gray, was inside, and the two drove rapidly away.

Emory pulled his hat over his eyes and sank back, as if he had lost a regiment of friends.

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