At Latonia

Faster, faster, faster they went. Around the turn, along the back stretch, faster, faster, faster. Fifty thousand people rose to watch them finish, those eight swift-galloping horses, seven of America's best against the best of France. Into the home stretch they swept, brown and black bodies, flashing colored silks, rising, falling, tearing through their own mad dust-cloud.

Up to the grandstand, past the judges' stand they thundered, and it was seen that Sarazen led all the rest. A length and a half behind Sarazen, a nose ahead of brown Mad Play, came Epinard, runner-up a third time in the international races for which he crossed the Atlantic. Came Altawood, Princess Doreen, Little Chief, My Play, Chilowee.

The scene was Latonia, Kentucky; the distance run, a mile and a quarter.

When the prizes were distributed, Mrs. William Kissam Vanderbilt II could not restrain a smile, several smiles. Horse Sarazen was her horse. Pierre Wertheimer smiled too, but a bit grimly. His Epinard had failed him again, for second money does not become "the finest horseflesh of France."