The sporting chance

by Alice Askew; Claude Askew

Silver Star was scratched for the Cambridgeshire, and so Mostyn's last hope for that year expired. He had now some four months to wait in which to make his preparations for the big steeplechase in the following March, as well as for the Lincolnshire.

Mostyn had taken no advantage of Jack's summary dismissal from Partinborough. He was, indeed, only on and off at the Grange, finding that he had plenty to occupy him in London. He had taken up a definite position with regard to Rada, and he was resolved to adhere firmly to it. She knew he loved her; it was for her to choose, when the time came, between him and Jack. She could break off her semi-engagement to the latter if she pleased; should Castor win the Derby, she would certainly have the means of paying off her debt; besides, apart from this, she was already making money with her horse, whose record was as yet unbroken. Castor had won everything for which he had been entered. Then there was the thousand pounds still reposing in Mostyn's safe—this money was quite at her disposition if her pride would allow her to take it. All this Mostyn had told her. So it was for Rada to choose. Mostyn would not speak of his love, he would not "bother" her. They met constantly, they teased each other, they quarrelled now and then—always making peace very quickly—and there were times when Mostyn thought that the eyes of the girl were wistful, times when he could not help fancying that she would show no bitter resentment if he opened his arms to take her to them, as he had done once before.

In his way he was stubborn, stubborn in his determination to abide by the conditions he had imposed upon himself. It was true that he did not understand women, and Rada was, of course, a particularly complex study. "I'll wait till after the Derby," so he told himself over and over again. "Rada wants no talk of love till then; has she not said so?" He often wondered why Rada should sometimes be cross with him without a cause; and once—he remembered quite well—she had burst into tears and run away; it was just before he left Partinborough for a longer stay than usual in town.

All this while, although, so far, failure had befallen him, there was not the smallest doubt in his mind that he would ultimately be successful in carrying out the terms of Anthony Royce's bequest.

But a fresh series of failures awaited him at the opening of the season. The Lincolnshire—that was the first of the three races in which his horse had run into second place; then had followed the Grand National, and here, having successfully negotiated Beecher's Brook and Valentine's Brook on the first round, Mostyn's mare, Giralda, had come badly to grief upon the second round; both jockey and mare were injured, the latter so much so that she had then and there to be shot.

The Chester Cup—second again; and finally, the City and Suburban, with exactly the same result.

Now there remained Asmodeus, who was second favourite for the Two Thousand Guineas, and a filly for the Thousand, whose training, however, had been insufficient for Mostyn to place much reliance upon her. She might possibly do better for the Oaks—absolutely Mostyn's last chance—but even with regard to this he had little confidence. For a long while he had steadily refused to have anything to do with the Derby, and so valuable time had been lost. Now he had a colt named Cipher in training, but Cipher was not a patch upon either Castor or upon Sir Roger's Pollux, and could hardly be looked upon as standing a chance. Such was the present position, and, considering it squarely and without bias, both Mostyn and Pierce had to admit that it was a desperate one.

"That beast of a Jew, Isaacson, will carry off the Two Thousand," groaned Pierce. "Don Quixote is bound to win on his form. We shall be in for another second. The only thing is, that we've got a better man up. Stanhope is a fine jockey, while Wilson is a fellow whom I never trusted, and they speak badly of him in the ring. But I expect he's being well paid for his job."

Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote, was the same man whose horse, Peveril, had so nearly won the Derby against Hipponous. He had only made his appearance upon the Turf within the last year or so, since some successful speculation had brought him a fortune. The only good point about him, so Pierce was wont to aver, was that he had not shown himself ashamed of his name, or of the method by which he had earned his living. He had been a bill discounter and money lender upon rather a large scale, and though he was reputed hard, no imputation had ever been made upon his honesty. Since wealth had come to him, he had given away large sums in charity, but this was probably in order that he might win the popularity which he coveted. He liked to make a big show, and his racing colours were all gold.

After a while Pierce rose, yawned, and expressed his determination to go to bed. The two young men had dined late, and their discussion had been a prolonged one. "Good-night, old chap," he said, "and don't worry your mind more than you can help. Things may come all right, after all. Asmodeus is a good horse, and there are a lot who fancy him."