might prove to be worth. He knew he had a few thousand dollars

in the bank--his inheritance from his mother, who had died when
he was a baby--and he might, perhaps, be able to persuade his

father to sanction the purchase. At any rate, he would have some
time to invent ways and means; for his father, Captain Carstens,

was now away on the great annual drill, and would not return for
some weeks.

As a mere matter of form, he resolved to try the mare before
bidding on her; and slipping a coin into the groom's hand he

asked for a saddle. It turned out, however, that all the saddles
were in use, and Erik had no choice but to mount bareback.

"Ride her on the snaffle. She won't stand the curb," shouted the
groom, as the mare, after plunging to the right and to the left,

darted through the gate to the track, and, after kicking up a
vast deal of tan-bark, sped like a bullet down the race-course.

"Good gracious, how recklessly that boy rides!" one jockey
observed to another; "but he has got a good grip with his knees

all the same."
"Yes, he sits like a daisy," the second replied, critically; "but

mind my word, Lady Clare will throw him yet. She never could
stand anybody but the princess on her back: and that was the

reason her Royal Highness was so fond of her. Mother of Moses,
won't there be a grand rumpus when she comes back again and finds

Lady Clare gone! I should not like to be in the shoes of the man
who has ordered Lady Clare under the hammer."

"But look at the lad! I told you Lady Clare wouldn't stand no
manner of nonsense from boys."

"She is kicking like a Trojan! She'll make hash of him if he
loses his seat."

"Yes, but he sticks like a burr. That's a jewel of a lad, I tell
ye. He ought to have been a jockey."

Up the track came Lady Clare, black as the ace of spades, acting
like the Old Harry. Something had displeased her, obviously, and

she held Erik responsible for it. Possibly she had just waked up
to the fact that she, who had been the pet of a princess, was now

being ridden by an ordinary commoner. At all events, she had
made up her mind to get rid of the commoner without further

ceremony. Putting her fine ears back and dilating her nostrils,
she suddenly gave a snort and a whisk with her tail, and up went

her heels toward the eternal stars--that is, if there had been
any stars visible just then. Everybody's heart stuck in his

throat; for fleet-footed racers were speeding round and round,
and the fellow who got thrown in the midst of all these trampling

hoofs would have small chance of looking upon the sun again.
People instinctively tossed their heads up to see how high he

would go before coming down again; but, for a wonder, they saw
nothing, except a cloud of dust mixed with tan-bark, and when

that had cleared away they discovered the black mare and her
rider, apparently on the best of terms, dashing up the track at a

breakneck pace.
Erik was dripping with perspiration when he dismounted, and Lady

Clare's glossy coat was flecked with foam. She was not aware,
apparently, that if she had any reputation to ruin she had

damaged it most effectually. Her behavior on the track and her
treatment of the horse-dealer were by this time common property,

and every dealer and fancier made a mental note that Lady Clare
was the number in the catalogue which he would not bid on. All

her beauty and her distinguished ancestry counted for nothing, as
long as she had so uncertain a temper. Her sire, Potiphar, it

appeared, had also been subject to the same infirmities of
temper, and there was a strain of savagery in her blood which

might crop out when you least expected it.
Accordingly, when a dozen fine horses had been knocked down at

good prices, and Lady Clare's turn came, no one came forward to
inspect her, and no one could be found to make a bid.

"Well, well, gentlemen," cried the auctioneer, "here we have a
beautiful thoroughbred mare, the favorite mount of Her Royal

Highness the Princess, and not a bid do I hear. She's a beauty,
gentlemen, sired by the famous Potiphar who won the Epsom

Handicap and no end of minor stakes. Take a look at her,
gentlemen! Did you ever see a horse before that was raven black

from nose to tail? I reckon you never did. But such a horse is
Lady Clare. The man who can find a single white hair on her can

have her for a gift. Come forward, gentlemen, come forward. Who
will start her--say at five hundred?"

A derisive laugh ran through the crowd, and a voice was heard to
cry, "Fifty."

"Fifty!" repeated the auctioneer, in a deeply grieved and
injured tone; "fifty did you say, sir? Fifty? Did I hear

rightly? I hope, for the sake of the honor of this fair city,
that my ears deceived me."

Here came a long and impressive pause, during which the
auctioneer, suddenly abandoning his dramatic manner, chatted

familiarly with a gentleman who stood near him. The only one in
the crowd whom he had impressed with the fact that the honor of

the city was at stake in this sale was Erik Carstens. He had
happily discovered a young and rich lieutenant of his father's

company, and was trying to persuade him to bid in the mare for
him.

"But, my dear boy," Lieutenant Thicker exclaimed, "what do you
suppose the captain will say to me if I aid and abet his son in

defying the paternal authority?"
"Oh, you needn't bother about that," Erik rejoined eagerly. "If

father was at home, I believe he would allow me to buy this mare.
But I am a minor yet, and the auctioneer would not accept my bid.

Therefore I thought you might be kind enough to bid for me."
The lieutenant made no answer, but looked at the earnest face of

the boy with unmistakablesympathy. The auctioneer assumed again
an insulted, affronted, pathetically entreating or scornfully

repelling tone, according as it suited his purpose; and the price
of Lady Clare crawled slowly and reluctantly up from fifty to

seventy dollars. There it stopped, and neither the auctioneer's
tears nor his prayers could apparently coax it higher.

"Seventy dollars!" he cried, as if he were really too shocked to
speak at all; "seven-ty dollars! Make it eighty! Oh, it is a sin

and a shame, gentlemen, and the fair fame of this beautiful city
is eternally ruined. It will become a wagging of the head and a

byword among the nations. Sev-en-ty dollars!"--then hotly and
indignantly--"seventy dollars!--fifth and last time, seventy

dollars!"--here he raised his hammer threateningly--"seventy
dollars!"

"One hundred!" cried a high boyish voice, and in an instant
every neck was craned and every eye was turned toward the corner

where Erik Carstens was standing, half hidden behind the broad
figure of Lieutenant Thicker.

"Did I hear a hundred?" repeated the auctioneer, wonderingly.
"May I ask who was the gentleman who said a hundred?"

An embarrassing silence followed. Erik knew that if he
acknowledged the bid he would suffer the shame of having it

refused. But his excitement and his solicitude for the fair fame
of his native city had carried him away so completely that the

words had escaped from his lips before he was fully aware of
their import.

"May I ask," repeated the wielder of the hammer, slowly and
emphatically, "may I ask the gentleman who offered one hundred

dollars for Lady Clare to come forward and give his name?"
He now looked straight at Erik, who blushed to the edge of his