Volume Ii Part 20 (2/2)

The conspicuous colours of George Bradon--scarlet and white hoops--were in the extreme rear, but suddenly as they got into the gra.s.s land his gray took first place and made the pace a cracker.

”The gray in to pump the field,” muttered the sly-looking little man to his neighbour.

”The fastest thing I have ever seen,” said another. ”By jingo, one, two, three down, and look, Bradon is taking quite a line of his own. By George, how well his horse jumps; it's a dead certainty.”

”So I think,” returned the other.

There is an awful tailing off now, the pace has told its tale; only eighteen or twenty are really in it. The dangerous brook and the double bank are pa.s.sed, and the gallant gray who has set the field has shot his bolt.

”Well done, Harry,” cried George, as he pa.s.sed him. ”Well done, pull him up.”

The great water jump in front of the Grand Stand is approached again.

”Here they come!” roared the mult.i.tude. ”Who's first? Scarlet and white hoops,” cried the excited thousands--”scarlet and white over the water first for money!”

George knowing the danger of a lot of horses, which he thought would be down at this, resolved to lead over it. Dropping his hands a bit the gallant animal rushed to the front, a length or so, and there he was kept.

The water is approached, the excitement of the mult.i.tude is something fearful as they sway to and fro to catch a glimpse.

”Magnificent!” burst from thousands of throats, as Guardsman hopped over the formidable eighteen feet like a bird.

George turned slightly in his saddle to take stock. ”All safe but three,” he uttered; ”well, that is more than I thought would get over.

Now, old man, I must take a pull at you. You have only done part of the journey. I can't afford to pump you yet.”

”Guardsman has cut it,” shouted a hundred voices as the gallant horse was pulled back.

”The cowardly brute!” bawled another.

”Don't you believe it,” cried the sly-looking little man, in a shrill voice that was heard all over the place. ”I'll take three to one in thous, and do it twice, that Guardsman wins, or is placed.”

”Done,” said the pale delicate youth; ”I'm on for twice.” And the pencils went to work.

There was but one opinion amongst the countless thousands that Guardsman was the best horse in the race, and that, bar accidents, he must win.

The field has become very select now; still what do remain in the chase go well.

The excitement is intense; men are gnawing their lips and nails; ladies are quivering with emotion and biting the tips of their delicate-coloured gloves.

Wild and staring eyes are everywhere. Men eagerly grasp each other by the arm with a wild convulsive clutch as the horses clear each obstacle. Some stand stony and immovable, without the slightest appearance of interest. Little is known of the fearful beatings of their hearts under that cold, calm exterior.

”Here they come!” said the crowd, as some eight or ten horses make the turn for home.

”Guardsman baked!” shouts the ring, as the horse is seen nearly last.

”The Irish horse wins for a thousand,” shouts an over-excited speculator.

”Done,” says the sly-looking little man, and again the metallics are at work.

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