The field was giving the starter all the trouble that twenty-four high-spirited thoroughbreds could give to any man. For ten minutes they backed and sidled and jumped and kicked and circled before the two long tapes. With exemplary patience the starter waited, directing, imploring almost, commanding and, it must be confessed, swearing, for he was a North-country starter who had no respect for the cracks of the jockey world.
The wait gave Horace an opportunity for collecting his thoughts. He had been a little upset by the strange request of the man who was now speaking so calmly at his elbow.
For Sir Isaac the period of waiting had increased the tension. His hands were shaking, his glasses went up and down, jerkily; he was in an agony of apprehension, when suddenly the white tape swung up, the field bunched into three sections, then spread again and, like a cavalry regiment, came thundering down the slight declivity on its homeward journey.
“They’re off!”
A roar of voices. Every glass was focused on the oncoming field. There was nothing in it for two furlongs; the start had been a splendid one. They came almost in a dead line. Then something on the rail shot out a little: it was Timbolino, going with splendid smoothness.
“That looks like the winner,” said Horace philosophically. “Mine’s shut in.”
In the middle of the course the jockey on Nemesis, seeking an opening, had dashed his mount to one which was impossible.
He found himself boxed between two horses, the riders of which showed no disposition to open out for him. The field was halfway on its journey when the boy pulled the filly out of the trap and “came round his horses.”
Timbolino had a two-length clear lead of Colette, which was a length clear of a bunch of five; Nemesis, when half the journey was done, was lying eighth or ninth.
Horace, on the stand, had his stopwatch in his hand. He clicked it off as the field passed the four-furlong post and hastily examined the dial.
“It’s a slow race,” he said, with a little thrill in his voice.
At the distance, Nemesis, with a quick free stride, had shot out of the ruck and was third, three lengths behind Timbolino.
The boy on Sir Isaac’s horse was running a confident race. He had the rails and had not moved on his horse. He looked round to see where the danger lay, and his experienced eye saw it in Nemesis, who was going smoothly and evenly.
A hundred yards from the post the boy on Gresham’s filly shook her up, and in half a dozen strides she had drawn abreast of the leader.
The rider of Timbolino saw the danger—he pushed his mount, working with hands and heels upon the willing animal under him.
They were running now wide of each other, dead level. The advantage, it seemed, lay with the horse on the rails, but Horace, watching with an expert eye from the top of the stand, knew that the real advantage lay with the horse in the middle of the track.
He had walked over the course that morning, and he knew that it was on the crown of the track that the going was best. Timbolino responded nobly to the efforts of his rider; once his head got in front, and the boy on Nemesis took up his whip, but he did not use it. He was watching the other. Then, with twenty yards to go, he drove Nemesis forward with all the power of his splendid hands.
Timbolino made one more effort, and as they flew past the judge’s box there was none save the judge who might separate them.
Horace turned to the girl at his side with a critical smile.
“Oh, you’ve won,” she said. “You did win, didn’t you?”
Her eyes were blazing with excitement.
He shook his head smilingly.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” he said. “It was a very close thing.”
He glanced at Sir Isaac. The baronet’s face was livid, the hand that he raised to his lips trembled like an aspen leaf.
“There’s one man,” thought Horace, “who’s more worried about the result than I am.”
Down below in the ring there was a Babel of excited talk. It rose up to them in a dull roar. They were betting fast and furiously on the result, for the numbers had not yet gone up.
Both horses had their partisans. Then there was a din amounting to a bellow. The judge had hoisted two noughts in the frame. It was a dead-heat!
“By Jove!” said Horace.
It was the only comment he made.
He crossed to the other side of the enclosure as quickly as he could, Sir Isaac following closely behind. As the baronet elbowed his way through the crowd somebody caught him by the arm. He looked round. It was Black.
“Run it off,” said Black, in a hoarse whisper. “It was a fluke that horse got up. Your jockey was caught napping. Run it off.”
Sir Isaac hesitated.
“I shall get half the bets and half the stakes,” he said.
“Have the lot,” said Black. “Go along, there is nothing to be afraid of. I know this game; run it off. There’s nothing to prevent you winning.”
Sir Isaac hesitated, then walked slowly to the unsaddling enclosure. The steaming horses were being divested of their saddles.
Gresham was there, looking cool and cheerful. He caught the baronet’s eye.
“Well, Sir Isaac,” he said pleasantly, “what are you going to do?”
“What do you want to do?” asked Sir Isaac suspiciously. It was part of his creed that all men were rogues. He thought it would be safest to do the opposite to what his rival desired. Like many another suspicious man, he made frequent errors in his diagnosis.
“I think it would be advisable to divide,” said Horace. “The horses have had a very hard race, and I think mine was unlucky not to win.”
That decided Sir Isaac.
“We’ll run it off,” he said.
“As you will,” said Horace coldly, “but I think it is only right to
