The horses passed on, and left the belt of turf called ‘the course’ perfectly clear. Half an hour’s restlessness ensued—the police moved up and down, urging the crowd to keep quiet and not break in upon the open space. Every face was turned to the starting point, and every eye was full of eager hope. Then came a cry, ‘They’re off!’ and ere I had fully realized the meaning of these words they came flashing by—a line of panting horses, with frantic riders remorselessly using both whip and spur. The colours of the men were mingled, and I failed to single out the red jacket of Melrose as the body swept past me, and the next moment the air was full of shouts and cries, and the race was over.
Then came a brief lull, and I saw some numbers hoisted on a board opposite. Benjamin Bunter, with a borrowed field glass, scanned the figures for a moment, and then fell back with a groan.
‘I thought so,’ said Rip quietly to me; ‘your master is ruined. Melrose is not one of the first three. I saw him bringing up the tail of the race, looking as if every bit of life had been beaten out of him.’
I made no reply, for my thoughts were laden with sorrow: on the whole my master had been kind to me, and his misfortune was mine. Under any circumstances I must have grieved for a ruined man, but the ruin in this case was brought near home to me, and my heart was very heavy indeed.
I was made sad too by what I saw and heard around me. Thousands of tongues were busy with the race, and disappointment was the general tone. It was horrible to hear the cursing heaped upon the horses. Some cursed the winner, some cursed the losers; but no one in my hearing spoke one kind word for the horses who had shown such matchless powers—not a word of their beauty, or the ease and grace of their movements, or of the spirit they had shown in the efforts made.
After the first excitement of the race was over, hampers were unpacked in all directions, and both men and women began to eat and drink—the winners to celebrate their success, the losers to drown their grief, and the ruined to stave off thought until the morrow. Wandering minstrels began their songs—women and girls in tawdry finery danced upon the turf to the music of cracked instruments—sunburnt gipsies with babies in their arms stole from carriage to carriage and told fortunes as truthful as the ‘tip’ my unhappy master had received; women laughed, men shouted, children cried; the cornet, the drum, the flute, the tambourine—one and all lent their sounds to the general tumult, and all was riot and confusion.
My eyes ached, my ears tingled, and lifting my head above this distracting scene, I fixed my gaze upon the clear blue heaven above. Oh! how calm and peaceful—how glorious—how beautiful! and far away against a patch of white cloud I saw a speck, and knew by its fluttering movement that it was a skylark singing; but his song was drowned in the popping of champagne corks, the beating of drums, and the thousand and one other noises of the worshippers of Folly. The votaries of the race thought as little of the grateful hymn of the bird as they did of the great Giver to whom it was instinctively addressed. ‘Oh! man, man,’ I cried, ‘look up and read your lesson there!’
I became so absorbed in my reflections that I had forgotten Rip, until he gave utterance to a very indignant snort, and asked me if I had taken up with sulky ways. This I laughingly denied, and Rip, after pretending for a moment to be very angry with me, chatted on about old associations and his present life, until his two young masters, who had been away for awhile, came back again. They seemed to be indignant and vexed about something, and the younger, as he put his foot upon the step, said aloud—
‘John told me that Madcap was sure to win—and he was not one of the first three.’
The same song my master sung, but the name was different. Melrose was sure to win, Madcap was sure to win, and neither of them were near it. Surely there must be roguery somewhere.