"THE ST. LEGER'S IN YOUR POCKET"
TRISTRAM arrived at Haverton; Sir Robert Raines came the same day; everything was in readiness for the trial next morning.
Sir Robert was a great racing man, came of a sporting family, had a fine seat about forty miles from Haverton, called Beaumont Hall, where he kept a stud of horses and about thirty or forty racers. He was well known as a plunger, and had landed some big stakes; occasionally he was hard hit, but so far the balance had been on the right side. He and the Woodridges had been friends for years; he had known the Admiral and admired him. He had also known Raoul Elroy and his wife, and been present at Hector's trial, on the grand jury, and after. Sir Robert was loath to believe Hector guilty, but on the evidence could arrive at no other conclusion. The result of the trial made no difference in his friendship with the Admiral and Picton; when the former died he helped his son to the best of his ability. He had a great liking for Captain Ben, which was returned.
It was a critical moment when Hector was introduced to him as William Rolfe, "a friend of mine from Devonshire," said Picton.
Sir Robert shook hands with him; it was easy to see he had no idea it was Hector Woodridge, and all breathed more freely.
"So you imagine you've got the winner of the St. Leger at Haverton, eh, Pic?" he said as they sat smoking after dinner.
"It's more than imagination. I think Tearaway is the best filly I ever saw; so does Blackett; he says she's as fast as the wind," said Picton.
"Is she? The wind blows at a pretty pace over the wolds sometimes, sixty miles an hour or more; she's not quite up to that," said Sir Robert.
"No, not quite," laughed Picton; "but she has a rare turn of speed, and can stay as long as she's wanted."
"I haven't seen her for some time," he said.
"She's improved a lot, a real beauty; I'm sure you will say so. You ought to back her to win a good stake."
"I'm told Ripon will win. They fancy him a lot at Newmarket; they also think he had bad luck to lose the Derby."
"Suppose Tearaway beats Tristram in the morning at seven pounds difference?" said Picton.
"It will be the biggest certainty for the St. Leger ever known," said Sir Robert.
Hector joined in the conversation. Sir Robert liked him, but no look or word reminded him of Hector Woodridge.
"I'm safe," thought Hector. "Sir Robert ought to have been one of the first to recognize me."
Next morning they were all on the moor early. Four horses were to take part in the trial: Tristram, Tearaway, Rodney and Admiral, and the filly was giving weight to all except Sir Robert's great horse.
"By jove, she has grown into a beauty!" exclaimed the baronet when he saw the beautiful black filly with Fred Erickson, the popular Yorkshire jockey, in the saddle. Erickson lived at Haverton village, but was not often at home, as he had an enormous amount of riding, going to scale under eight stone easily.
"Good morning, Fred," said Sir Robert. "You're on a nice filly."
"She is, Sir Robert; one of the best."
"Can she beat Tristram? You've ridden him."
"I wouldn't go so far as that, but she'll give him a good race," said the jockey.
Abel Dent came from Beaumont Hall to ride Tristram in the gallop. He was always on the horse's back in his work and knew him thoroughly.
"You'll have to keep him going, Abe," said Sir Robert, smiling.
"I'll keep 'em all going," was the confident reply.
Rodney and Admiral were more than useful; the latter was to bring them along for the last mile, it was his favorite distance.
Brant Blackett greeted them as he rode up on his cob. He was brimful of confidence as to the result of the spin. He set Tearaway to give Rodney and Admiral a stone each.
"I'll send them down to the two-mile post," he said.
"This is the best long gallop anywhere, I should say," said Sir Robert. "I often envy it you, Pic, my boy. Fancy four miles straight—it's wonderful."
It was indeed a glorious sight. The moor stretched away for miles, undulating, until it was lost in the hill in the distance. The training ground had been reclaimed from it, snatched from its all-devouring grasp, and been perfected at great expense. Beside the somber brown of the wild moorland it looked a brilliant, dazzling green.
Haverton Moor harbored vast numbers of birds, and the grouse shooting was among the best in Yorkshire. Picton Woodridge owned the moor; it was not profitable, but he loved it, and would sooner have parted with fertile farms than one acre of this brown space. It was not dull this morning; the sun touched everything, and as far as the eye could see there were billows of purple, brown, green, yellow, and tinges of red. A haze hung over it when they arrived, but gradually floated away like gossamer and disappeared into space. The air was bracing; it was good to be out on such a morning, far away from the noise and bustle of the busy world; a feeling of restfulness, which nature alone gives, was over all.
To Hector, however, it recalled memories which made him shudder. He thought of that great moor he had so recently been a prisoner on, and of his escape, and the privations he suffered. There was not the cruel look about Haverton, and there was no prison in its space.
Blackett sent his head lad to start them. Looking through powerful glasses he saw when they moved off and said, "They're on the way; we shall know something."
The three were galloping straight toward them at a tremendous pace.
Rodney held the lead; he would be done with at the end of the first mile, then Admiral would jump in and pilot them home.
Abe Dent meant winning on Tristram; he had little doubt about it. How could Tearaway be expected to beat him at a difference of only seven pounds? It was absurd!
Rodney fell back, and Admiral took command with a six lengths' lead. The lad on him had instructions to come along at top speed, and was nothing loath; he knew his mount was a smasher over a mile.
Tearaway was in the rear, Erickson keeping close behind Tristram. When Admiral took Rodney's place the jockey knew the filly was going splendidly; he felt sure he could pass Tristram at any time.
Dent saw Admiral sailing ahead and went after him; the gap lessened, Tristram got within three lengths and stopped there. Sir Robert's horse was a great stayer, but he lacked the sprinting speed for a lightning finish. This was where Tearaway had the advantage.
"What a pace!" exclaimed Sir Robert. "By jove, Pic, you've got a wonder in that filly, but she'll not beat my fellow."
"They have half a mile to go yet," said the trainer. "There'll be a change before long."
So great was the pace that Admiral ran himself out at the end of six furlongs and came back to Tristram. Fred saw this, and giving Tearaway a hint she raced up alongside the Cup horse.
When Dent saw her head level with him he set to work on his mount. Tristram always finished like a bulldog, and had to be ridden out. He gained again.
Sir Robert saw it and said: "He'll come right away now."
So thought the others, with the exception of the trainer; he sat on his cob, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
"Wait till Fred turns the tap on," he thought.
Erickson was not long in doing this. He knew Tearaway's speed was something abnormal; in his opinion nothing could stand against it.
In answer to his call, Tearaway swooped down on Tristram again, drew level, headed him, left him, and was a length ahead before Dent recovered from the shock. On came Tearaway. They looked in amazement. Sir Robert could hardly believe his eyes. What a tremendous pace at the end of a two-mile gallop.
"What did I tell you!" exclaimed the trainer triumphantly. "Fast as the wind, you bet she is."
The black filly came on, increasing her lead at every stride; she passed them a good couple of lengths ahead of Tristram, Admiral toiling in the rear.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Sir Robert. He seemed puzzled to account for it. Was Tristram off color? He must ask Dent.
The pair pulled up and came slowly to the group.
"Anything wrong with my horse?" asked Sir Robert.
"No, sir; he galloped as well as ever, but that filly's a wonder, a holy terror, never saw anything like it, she flew past him—her pace is tremendous," and Dent looked at Tearaway with a sort of awe.
"Won easily," said Fred. "Never had to press her. I had the measure of Tristram all the way; I could have raced up to him at any part of the spin. Look at her now. She doesn't blow enough to put a match out; you can't feel her breathing hardly. She's the best racer I ever put my leg across."
"Pic, the St. Leger's in your pocket," said Sir Robert, as he shook him heartily by the hand.