He went with head depressed, his sullen; hopeless ears laid back.

On his back sat Manuel Cordova, resplendent in sky-blue, tight-fitting jacket.

Yet he rode the spiritless chestnut with both hands, his body canted forward a little, his whole attitude one of desperate alertness.

There was something so ludicrous in the contrast between the hair-trigger nervousness of the Mexican and the drowsy unconcern of the stallion that a murmur of laughter rose from the crowd about the starting line and drifted across the field.
"I suppose you'll say that long hair is good to keep him warm in winter," went on the girl sarcastically.

"As far as legs are concerned, he seems to have about as much as the longest of the mares." Corson shook his head in depreciation.
"You never can tell what a fool Mexican will do.