“All right, in the weighing-room after the race. It will be done neatly and quietly, and no fuss; and a very pretty little bit of business it will be,” the grey-haired man said, as he bustled away, and he seemed to leave the inspector with something to do, for the latter at once went and spoke to one of the mounted men.
Joe Warton was Wondering who the grey-haired man was, when he noticed that after he had spoken to the inspector he passed closed to McNeil, the man whom he had recognised the night before outside his garden. The latter seemed also, so Warton thought, to be a good deal interested in the grey-haired man. In fact, he would have wagered, from the expression of his face, that he recognised the stranger.
However, Joe Warton did not bother himself any more about them, for just then there was a cry of “They’re off!” He was not long in suspense. “Induna wins!” was shouted out before the horses had got a furlong.
“Lone Star is coming up—No, it’s no good, she can’t catch Induna,” Warton said, as he put his glasses back in their case, for the race was practically over.
Polly Short looked at the race and felt that she was sorry, and that she would give a good deal to see old Lone Star win and that Joe should have the purse she had worked, though she supposed he would not care much for it now.
It was about as tame a race as could be seen, but as the winner passed the post, followed by Lone Star, a somewhat startling incident occurred. The grey-haired man who had borrowed Warton’s glass, had not gone up to the stand; McNeil also had stopped below and stood just behind him. Suddenly he sprang forward, seized the grey-haired man under his two arms and lifted him clean up into the air, at the same time shouting in a voice that could be heard all over the course,—
“Jim! Slim Jim! ride like hell! look here! Old Sharp has come out after you!”
“Hullo! what’s the matter with Sir Harry? he don’t seem to be able to stop the horse. Why, he’s going round twice—no he ain’t! Where the deuce is he going?” said Mr Lascelles, as he saw his horse shoot out from a canter into a gallop, and dash past the paddock at a racing pace. “Well, that’s a rum way to finish a race! I suppose it’s what they do at the club meeting where he rides at home. But I don’t see the sense of it.”
Mr Lascelles’ astonishment increased considerably as he saw a mounted policeman set off in hot pursuit of the winner.
“He’s gone mad! He can’t stop the horse! He’s got a sunstroke! He don’t know where the winning-post is!” were the opinions shouted out by the lookers-on.