‘I congratulate you upon your good fortune,’ I said, repressing a sigh. ‘My lot has not been so pleasant as I could wish, but I won’t complain.’
‘There never was such a horse as you to endure,’ returned Rip; ‘and yet it’s not from want of spirit; you have a tremendous deal of work in you, and you always did your duty nobly.’
‘It is only right to do so, Rip,’ I said, feeling rather foolish over this unmerited praise; and then at his request I gave him a brief outline of my life, and just as I concluded, Benjamin Bunter and his friend the plumber returned.
‘Melrose is first favourite,’ he said to his wife. ‘I have put the money in, and we are safe to win. The men who ought to know say he can’t lose;’ and the man’s face beamed as if the race was already over and he a winner.
‘Poor fool,’ said Rip contemptuously; ‘one of the numberless thousands who make the betting knaves of the turf rich. He is a sporting greengrocer—earns his money with toil, gets a tip or hint from a trainer or jockey, who perchance knows no more than he, and risks not only his own money, but that which is due to others in the way of business. I have seen many like him, Blossom, and I know full well the expression in his face—he is elated because he is hopeful; but if his hopes in this case are foiled, he is a ruined man.’
‘I hope not,’ I said.
‘It is a fact,’ replied Rip. ‘See how he licks his lips and nervously presses his hands together; now he takes a sip from the bottle, as if that could help him. Poor fellow! there are thousands like him to-day upon this course, and in an hour more than two-thirds of them will realize their folly, and return home dejected, ruined, miserable—unless they drink, which but wards off the pain for the time, and brings it back tenfold on the morrow. But hush! here come the horses—the noblest and most graceful of our race.’
Then there filed past upon the course, which the police had previously cleared, a line of the most beautiful horses I had ever seen, each with a rider in a coloured jacket and cap upon his back. The glossy coats of the horses shone like rippling water in the sunlight, and their light fawn-like limbs trod the turf as if they supported creatures of air. Their appearance was greeted with a shout. The ladies uttered little ecstatic cries of admiration; but the men were busy looking out for some particular horse on which their fortunes that day depended.
‘There—there,’ I heard Benjamin Bunter cry, ‘that’s Melrose; isn’t he a beauty? There is not another horse in the field like him. The red jacket wins!’
Melrose’s rider wore a red jacket, and many a tongue shouted out to him a word of encouragement as he went by; but other horses and riders had their supporters, who were as sanguine as Benjamin Bunter as to their success.