"All right now, sir. Step inside," said the trainer.
The mist was deepening, and the dizziness in Jack's head was increasing.
He could only see objects indistinctly.
What was the matter with him? Could he have hurt himself more than he suspected?
Before him was a gentleman who sat on a bale of hay, and he seemed to have a bandage on his foot.
"Mr. Smith," began the gentleman. "Why! It's Jack Harkaway!—Mr. Harkaway, I mean, pardon the familiarity. How the deuce did you come to ride my horse, sir?"
"You're Alfred Van Hoosen?" said Jack, in a faint voice.
"Certainly, I am."
"Did I win the race?"
"Did you win it? Why, man alive! It was the finest race on record, they tell me. Every one is perfectly wild about it, and—"