"By Jove! Mostyn," he opined, "you've got to win this time, or I don't know how you'll pocket your cash. Cipher's not going to win the Derby for you, you know"—he shook his head prophetically—"Cipher can't get away from Castor, to say nothing of my Pollux."
To this Mostyn agreed. He knew that it was true. Castor and Pollux were the two colts who gave real promise for the coming Derby. They had never met, and yet they were both unbeaten, each holding a record of some half-dozen victories in the course of the year.
"Jove! what an extraordinary Derby it'll be," Mostyn commented, trying to distract his thoughts from the excitement of the moment. "Two horses, Castor and Pollux, so exactly alike, as I understand them to be, both having the same sire, both boasting similar records, and not a line to go upon to show which is the better! It'll be a Derby worth seeing, Sir Roderick."
The baronet agreed. Nevertheless, as was only to be expected, he favoured his own horse. "Not that I care so much about winning," he observed with his broad, genial smile. "One Derby should be enough for any man. Hipponous pulled that off for me as well as the Leger. I'm far keener now," he added bluffly, "upon trying to drive sense into the noddles of all those Socialists, Radicals, Home Rulers, and agitators that grow up like weeds about us. A lot of disloyal fellows who are so blind that they can't hear sense when it's talked to them. They simply don't know upon which side their bread is feathered, and they are only playing to butter their own nests!"
It was a muddled metaphor worthy of "Old Rory" at his best. Mostyn could not refrain from laughing, as did Sir Roderick himself when he realised what he had said. He always roared over his own tangled speeches, even in Parliament, enjoying them quite as much as anyone else.
He had certainly been very much to the fore at Westminster of late, and his wild attacks upon the Government had added much to the enlivenment of a dull session. Yet "Old Rory" was more popular than ever, and that with all parties in the House.
Time passed pleasantly enough till the bell rang and the course was cleared for the big race. Mostyn remained in the paddock till Asmodeus, a fine bay, long of limb and strong of barrel, strode proudly out and was greeted by a cheer from the crowd as he galloped easily past the Grand Stand.
The puce and black diamonds of Mostyn's colours were quickly put in the shade by an aggressive vision of gold as Asmodeus was followed by Don Quixote, and now the crowd cheered again, though in a minor key. The horse had been heavily backed, and there was no little discontent at the fall in his price that morning; people were asking each other the reason for the sudden change of jockey. Isaacson was unpopular, and there was considerable prejudice against him, wholly without reason; whereas Mostyn, who in barely a year had become so prominent a figure upon racecourses, stood high in popular favour.
"It's a match between you and me, Clithero," Isaacson said as the two men took up their places to watch the race. "They're off," he added a moment later, levelling his glasses. "A good start, what?"
Mostyn remembered little of that race. He stood, indeed, his field-glasses raised, to all outward appearance as calm and placid as Isaacson himself. He followed the horses as they ran, he marked the failure of Bouncing Boy, he even commented upon the riding of the jockey who was up on Wisdom, a chestnut heavily backed for a place, and who was palpably giving the horse his head over much; but all the while he was staring through a mist: it was as though a fog had settled over the course, a fog which his eyes could penetrate but which made everything appear contorted, disproportionate, ridiculous. Somehow the thought came to him of that face which he had seen peering through the window at the Grange; every object he looked upon was disfigured in just the same way. There were men and women close by at whom he could have laughed, so absurd did they appear. And all the while there was a great thumping going on in his ears like the working of a vast machine; it was so loud that he could hardly hear the shouting of the crowd.