“I know all about that,” interrupted the other rudely, “but none the less, I’m going to run it off.”
Horace nodded. He turned to consult with his trainer. If the baronet decided to run the dead-heat off, there was nothing to prevent it, the laws of racing being that both owners must agree to divide.
Sir Isaac announced his intention to the stewards, and it was arranged that the runoff would take place after the last race of the day.
He was shaking with excitement when he rejoined Black.
“I’m not so sure that you’re right,” he said dubiously. “This chap Gresham says his horse was boxed in. I didn’t see the beast in the race, so I can’t tell. Ask somebody.”
“Don’t worry,” said Black, patting him on the back, “there is nothing to worry about; you’ll win this race just as easily as I shall walk from this ring to the paddock.”
Sir Isaac was not satisfied. He waited till he saw a journalist whom he knew by sight returning from the telegraph office.
“I say,” he said, “did you see the race?”
The journalist nodded.
“Yes, Sir Isaac,” he said with a smile. “I suppose Gresham insisted on running it off?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Sir Isaac, “but I think I was unlucky to lose.”
The journalist made a little grimace.
“I’m sorry I can’t agree with you,” he said. “I thought that Mr. Gresham’s horse ought to have won easily, but that he was boxed in in the straight.”
Sir Isaac reported this conversation to Black.
“Take no notice of these racing journalists,” said Black contemptuously. “What do they know? Haven’t I got eyes as well as they?”
But this did not satisfy Sir Isaac.
“These chaps are jolly good judges,” he said. “I wish to heaven I had divided.”
Black slapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re losing your nerve, Ikey,” he said. “Why, you’ll be thanking me at dinner tonight for having saved you thousands of pounds. He didn’t want to run it off?”
“Who?” asked Sir Isaac. “Gresham?”
“Yes; did he?” asked Black.
“No, he wasn’t very keen. He said it wasn’t fair to the horses.”
Black laughed.
“Rubbish!” he said scornfully. “Do you imagine a man like that cares whether his horse is hard raced or whether it isn’t? No! He saw the race as well as I did. He saw that your fool of a jockey had it won and was caught napping. Of course he didn’t want to risk a runoff. I tell you that Timbolino will win easily.”
Somewhat reassured by his companion’s optimism. Sir Isaac awaited the conclusion of the runoff in better spirits. It added to his assurance that the ring took a similar view to that which Black held. They were asking for odds about Timbolino. You might have got two to one against Nemesis.
But only for a little while.
Gresham had gone into the tearoom with the girl, and was standing at the narrow entrance of the county stand, when the cry, “Two to one Nemesis!” caught his ear.
“They’re not laying against my horse!” he exclaimed in astonishment.
He beckoned a man who was passing. “Are they laying against Nemesis?” he asked.
The man nodded. He was a commission agent, who did whatever work the young owner required.
“Go in and back her for me. Put in as much money as you possibly can get. Back it down to evens,” said Gresham decidedly.
He was not a gambling man. He was shrewd and businesslike in all his transactions, and he could read a race. He knew exactly what had happened. His money created some sensation in a market which was not over-strong. Timbolino went out, and Nemesis was a shade odds on.
Then it was that money came in for Sir Isaac’s horse.
Black did not bet to any extent, but he saw a chance of making easy money. The man honestly believed all he had said to Sir Isaac. He was confident in his mind that the jockey had ridden a “jolly race.” He had sufficient credit amongst the best men in the ring to invest fairly heavily.
Again the market experienced an extraordinary change. Timbolino was favourite again. Nemesis went out—first six to four, then two to one, then five to two.
But now the money began to come in from the country. The results of the race and its description had been published in the stop-press editions in hundreds of evening papers up and down England, Ireland and Scotland.
Quick to make their decisions, the little punters of Great Britain were re-investing—some to save their stakes, others to increase what they already regarded as their winnings.
And here the money was for Nemesis. The reporters, unprejudiced, had no other interest but to secure for the public accurate news and to describe things as they saw them. And the race as they saw it was the race which Sir Isaac would not believe and at which Black openly scoffed.
The last event was set for half-past four, and after the field had come past the post, and the winner was being led to the unsaddling enclosure, the two dead-heaters of the memorable Lincolnshire Handicap came prancing from the paddock on to the course.
The question of the draw was immaterial. There was nothing to choose between the jockeys, two experienced horsemen, and there was little delay at the post. It does not follow that a race of two runners means an equable start, though it seemed that nothing was likely to interfere with the tiny field getting off together. When the tapes went up, however, Nemesis half-turned and lost a couple of lengths.
“I’ll back Timbolino,” yelled somebody from the ring, and a quick staccato voice cried, “I’ll take three to one.”
A chorus of acceptances met the offer.
Sir Isaac was watching the race from the public stand. Black was at his side.
“What did I tell you?” asked the latter exultantly. “The money is in your pocket, Ikey, my boy. Look, three lengths in front.
