The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills
The starting judge clanged his bell again, and the other three
starters came up.
Flecker, good-natured and fat, his horse in a warming-up foam,
laughed till he swayed in the sulky. Col. Troup, dignified and
reserved, said nothing. But Travis swore.
"It's preposterous!--it will make the race a farce. We're out for
blood and that purse. This is no comedy," he said.
The old man only smiled and said: "I'm sorry to spile the sport of
gentlemen, but bein' gentlemen, I know they will stan' by their own
rules."
"It's here in black and white, Travis," said the starter, "You made
it yourself."
"Oh, hell," said Travis hotly, "that was mere form and to satisfy the
Valley. I thought the entrance fee would bar any outsider."
"But it didn't," said the Judge, "and you know the rules."
"Let him start, let the Hill-Billy start!" shouted the crowd, and
then there was a tumult of hisses, groans and cat-calls.
Then it was passed from mouth to mouth that it was the old Cottontown
preacher, and the excitement grew intense.
It was the most comical, most splendid joke ever played in the
Valley. Travis was not popular, neither was the dignified Col. Troup.
Up to this time the crowd had not cared who won the purse; nor had
they cared which of the pretty trotters received the crown. It meant
only a little more swagger and show and money to throw away.
But here was something human, pathetic. Here was a touch of the stuff
that made the grand-stand kin to the old man. The disreputable cart,
the lifeless, blind old pacer, the home-made harness, the seediness
of it all--the pathos.
Here was the quaint old man, who, all his life, had given for others,
here was the ex-overseer and the ex-trainer of the Travis stables,
trying to win the purse from gentlemen.
"Ten to one," said a prosperous looking man, as he looked quietly
on--"the Bishop wants it for charity or another church. Like as not
he knows of some poverty-stricken family he's going to feed."
"If that's so," shouted two young fellows who were listening, and who
were partisans of Flecker of Tennessee, "if that's the way of it,
we'll go over and take a hand in seeing that he has fair play."
They arose hastily, each shifting a pistol in his pocket, and butted
through the crowd which was thronged around the Judge's stand, where
the old man sat quietly smiling from his cart, and Travis and Troup
were talking earnestly.
"Damned if I let Trombine start against such a combination as that,
sah. I'll drive off the track now, sah--damned if I don't, sah!"
But the two young men had spoken to big fat Flecker of Tennessee, and
he arose in his sulky-seat and said: "Now, gentlemen, clear the track
and let us race. We will let the old man start. Say, old man," he
laughed, "you won't feel bad if we shut you out the fust heat, eh?"
"No," smiled the Bishop--"an' I 'spec you will. Why, the old hoss
ain't raced in ten years."
"Oh, say, I thought you were going to say twenty," laughed Flecker.
Some rowdy had crowded around the old cart and attempted to unscrew
the axle tap. But some one reached over the head of the crowd and
gripped him where his shoulder and arm met, and pulled him forward
and twirled him around like a top.
It was enough. It was ten minutes before he could lift up his arm at
all; it felt dead.
"Don't hurt nobody, Jack," whispered the old man, "be keerful."
The crowd were for the old man. They still shouted--"Fair play, fair
play--let him start," and they came thronging and crowding on the
track.
"Clear the track," cried the starting-judge to a deputy sheriff in
charge--"I'll let him start."
This set the crowd in a roar.
"Square man," they yelled--"Square man!"
Travis bit his lips and swore.
"Why, damn him," he said, "we'll lose him the first heat. I'll shut
him out myself."
"We will, sah, we will!" said Col. Troup. "But if that rattling
contraption skeers my mare, I'll appeal to the National Association,
sah. I'll appeal--sah," and he drove off up the stretch, hotter than
his mare.
And now the track was cleared--the grand stand hummed and buzzed with
excitement.
It was indeed the greatest joke ever played in the Tennessee Valley.
Not that there was going to be any change in the race, not that the
old preacher had any chance, driving as he did this bundle of ribs
and ugliness, and hitched to such a cart--but that he dared try it at
all, and against the swells of horsedom. There would be one heat of
desperate fun and then--
A good-natured, spasmodic gulp of laughter ran clear through the
grand-stand, and along with it, from excited groups, from the
promenade, from the track and infield and stables, even, came such
expressions as these:
"Worth ten dollars to see it!"
"Wouldn't take a hoss for the sight!"
"If he _did_ happen to beat that trio of sports!"
"Boss, it's gwinter to be a hoss race from wire to wire!"
"Oh, pshaw! one heat of fun--they'll shut him out!"
In heart, the sympathy of the crowd was all with the old preacher.
The old man had a habit when keyed to high pitch, emotionally, of
talking to himself. He seemed to regard himself as a third person,
and this is the way he told it, heat by heat:
"Fus' heat, Ben Butler--Now if we can manage to save our distance
an' leave the flag a few yards, we'll be doin' mighty well. Long
time since you stretched them ole muscles of yo's in a race--long
time--an' they're tied up and sore. Ever' heat'll be a wuck out
to you till you git hot. If I kin only stay in till you git
hot--(_Clang--clang--clang_). That's the starter's bell. Yes--we'll
score now--the fus' heat'll be our wuss. They've got it in fur us--they'll
set the pace an' try to shet us out an', likely es not, do it. God
he'p us--Shiloh--Cap'n Tom--it's only for them, Ben Butler--fur them.
(_Clang!--Clang!_) Slow there--heh--heh--Steady--ah-h!"
_Clang--clang-clang!_ vigorously. The starter was calling them back.
They had scored down for the first time, but the hot-heads had been
too fast for the old ambler. In their desire to shut him out, they
rushed away like a whirlwind. The old pacer followed, rocking and
rolling in his lazy way. He wiggled, shuffled, skipped, and when the
strain told on the sore old muscles, he winced, and was left at the
wire!
The crowd jeered and roared with laughter.
"He'll never get off!"
"He's screwed there--fetch a screw driver!"
"Pad his head, he'll fall on it nex'!"
"Go back, gentlemen, go back," shouted the starter, "and try again.
The old pacer was on a break"--_Clang--clang--clang!_ and he jerked
his bell vigorously.
Travis was furious as he drove slowly back. "I had to pull my mare
double to stop her," he called to the starter. "We were all aligned
but the old pacer--why didn't you let us go?"
"Because I am starting these horses by the rules, Mr. Travis. I know
my business," said the starter hotly.
Col. Troup was blue in the face with rage.
Flecker laughed.
They all turned again and came down, the numbers on the drivers' arms
showing 1, 2, 3, 4--Travis, Troup, Flecker, and the old Bishop,
respectively.
"Ben Butler, ole hoss, this ain't no joke--you mus' go this time. We
ain't goin' to meetin'--Stretch them ole legs as you did!--oh, that's
better--ef we could only score a few more times--look!--ah!"
_Clang--clang--clang!_
This time it was Col. Troup's mare. She broke just at the wire.
"She saved us that time, Ben Butler. We wus two rods behind--"
They came down the third time. "Now, thank God, he's jes' beginnin'
to unlimber," chuckled the old man as the old pacer, catching on to
the game and warming to his work, was only a length behind at the
wire, as they scored the fourth time, when Flecker's mare flew up in
the air and again the bell clanged.
The crowd grew impatient. The starter warned them that time was up
and that he'd start them the next time they came down if he had the
ghost of a chance.
Again they aligned and came thundering down. The old man was pale and
silent, and Ben Butler felt the lines telegraphing nervous messages
to his bitted mouth; but all he heard was: "_Shiloh--Cap'n
Tom--Steady, old hoss!_"
"Go!"
It sounded like a gun-shot in the old man's ears. There was a whirr
of wheels, a patter of feet grappling with dirt and throwing it all
over him--another whirr and flutter and buzz as of a covey flushed,
and the field was off, leaving him trailing.
"Whew, Ben Butler, we're in fur it now--the Lord 'a-mussy on our
souls! Take the pole--s'artenly,--it's all yowin, since you're
behin'! Steady ole hoss, there's one consolation,--they're breakin'
the wind for you, an' thank God!--yes Ben Butler, look! they're after
one other,--they're racin' like Tam O'Shanter an' cookin' each other
to a gnat's heel--Oh, Lord what fools! It'll tell on 'em--if we can
only save our distance--this heat--jes' save our distance--Wh-o-p,
sah! Oh, my Lord, told you so--Troup's mare's up an' dancin' like a
swamp rabbit by moonlight. Who-op, sah, steady ole hoss--there now
we've passed him--Trombine and Lizette ahead--steady--let 'em go, big
devil, little devil, an' pumpin' each other--Go now, go old hoss,
now's the time to save our distance--go old hoss, step lively
now--'tain't no meetin', no Sunday School--it's life, bread and a
chance for Cap'n Tom! Oh, but you ain't forgot entirely,
no-no,--ain't forgot that you come in answer to prayer, ain't forgot
that half in one-one, ain't forgot yo' pious raisin', yo' pedigree.
Ain't forgot you're racin' for humanity an' a chance, ain't
forgot--there! the flag--my God and safe!"
He had passed the flag. Lizzette and Trombine were already at the
wire, but poor Troup--his mare had never been able to settle after
her wild break, and she caught the flag square in the face.
The crowd met the old pacer with a yell of delight. He had not been
shut out--marvel of marvels!
It was getting interesting indeed.
Bud and Jack met him with water and a blanket. How proud they were!
But the heavy old cart had told on Ben Butler. He panted like a
hound, he staggered and was distressed.
"He'll get over that," said the old driver cheerily to Bud's tearful
gaze--"he ain't used to it yet--ten years, think of it," and Jack led
Ben Butler blanketed away.
The old man looked at the summary the judges had hung up. It was:
_1st Heat:_ _Trumps, 1st_; _Lizzette, 2nd_; _Ben Butler, 3rd_;
_Trombine distanced._ _Time_, 2:17-1/2.
Then he heard a man swearing elegantly. It was Col. Troup. He was
sitting in his sulky in front of the grand stand and talking to
Travis and the genial Flecker:
"A most unprofessional thing, gentlemen,--damned unprofessional,
sah, to shut me out. Yes, sah, to shut out a gentleman, sah, an' the
first heat, sah, with his horse on a break."
"What!" said Flecker excitedly--"you, Col'nel? Shut out--why, I
thought it was the old pacer."
"I swear I did, too, Colonel," said Travis apologetically. "I heard
something rattling and galloping along--I thought it was the old
pacer and I drove like the devil to shut him out!"
"It was me, sah, me! damned unprofessional, sah; my mare throwed a
boot!"
He walked around and swore for ten minutes. Then he quieted down and
began to think. He was shut out--his money was gone. But--"By gad,
sah," he said cracking his whip--"By gad I'll do it!"
Ten minutes later as Ben Butler, cooled and calm, was being led out
for the second heat, Col. Troup puffed boisterously up to the Bishop:
"Old man, by gad, sah, I want you to use my sulky and harness. It's a
hundred pounds lighter than that old ox-cart you've got. I'm goin' to
he'p you, sah, beat that pair of short dogs that shets out a
gentleman with his horse on a break, sah!"
And that was how the old man drew first blood and came out in a new
sulky and harness.