The first stone gaps being scattered and shattered, the horses made for the second inward turn. Two of the three-year-olds were now trailing, completely done, and the little Rat, going at his ease, was close up with the leaders.
Quick and handily, James Rourke's dun slipped over the narrow banks with cat-like accurate ease, a complete contrast to the big horse's slithering bounds, invariably wrongly timed; but so far as pace went, That's the Boy had only to gallop on and win.
He tore at his head at the fences, cheeked his bit, and rushed out of the course, the violent wrench which brought him round bringing him also into collision with a rather awkward bank and sending him on to his knees.
Now a variety of mistakes will blow any horse. When Dan Rooney set his mount going again he did not meet with the same response, and the dun, the grey and the Rat were a field ahead.
"Bet you a sovereign, Rourke," said Darby. "Gheena, a sovereign."
Gheena, of course, backed That's the Boy. Wild shrieks began to arise from the crowd, and the local bookmaker could not issue tickets fast enough. He had absolutely lost count of where he stood, so much that he eyed his outside car more than once.
The grey mare, going gallantly, closed with the dun, who wore her down and shot out. Half a field behind, That's the Boy, white with foam, was being unmercifully flogged on. But the dun gave the last bank a lightning-like kick, and as James Rourke wondered if he would be caught in the run home, something slipped by him.
The Rat was clean bred, with brothers and sisters running races in England. He had been going quite within himself, and now he stretched his wicked little head and made for the hounds at a pace which completely worsted the dun five-year-old.
"The divil's delight to it, but the pony has it won!" yelled someone frantically. "The pony!"
"Andy, for the love of God!" wailed James Rourke. "An' I have three pound on at fours. Twelve pounds, Andy, I'll be dhrawin'."