Little Boy Braithwaite, who had at last recovered his seat, came up like thunder on the quarters of the mare. The lad drove the filly at the loose horse and rammed him in the flank.
A groan went up from the assembled thousands.
"Good boy!" roared the Americans.
"Dead boy, ye mean," muttered Old Mat. "He's got it."
Horse and boy went down together in headlong ruin. Flibberty-gibbet rose with difficulty and limped away with broken leg and nodding head. The boy rolled over on his face and lay still under the heavens, his canary jacket like a blob of mustard on the green.
The women in the crowd caught their breath.
"Yes, he's done," muttered Mat, "Saved the Three J's a quarter of a million, though."
"But she's through," commented Silver.
"Don't you believe it," grumbled the old man.
The sacrifice, indeed, seemed to have been in vain. Kingfisher staggered under the shock, recovered, and came sailing up once more, as it might have been deliberately, alongside the mare.