Marianne was so exasperated that she looked to Mrs.Corson in the pinch, but that old lady was smiling dimly behind her glasses; she seemed to be studying the smoky gorges of the Eagles, so Marianne wisely deferred her answer and listened to that unique voice which rises from a crowd of men and women when horses are about to race.

There is no fellow to the sound.

The voice of the last-chance better is the deep and mournful burden; the steady rattle of comment is the body of it; and the edge of the noise is the calling of those who are confident with "inside dope." Marianne, listening, thought that the sound in Glosterville was very much like the sound in Belmont.

The difference was in the volume alone.

The hosses were now lining up for the start, it was with a touch of malice that Marianne said: "I suppose that's one of your range types?
That faded old chestnut just walking up to get in line ?" Corson started to answer and then rubbed his eyes to look again.
It was Alcatraz plodding towards the line of starters, his languid hoofs rousing a wisp of dust at every step.