“He can’t keep it! Ricos won’t let himself be beaten as easily as that,” replied Buttertub. “See him bend to it. There, he’s up with him! They’re even! He’s trying to get the inside! ’Rah! ’Rah!”
“Look out! there’ll be a smash-up!” cried the trainer. “Keep to the right, you lummox.”
“Hi!” cried Mr. Van Silver, springing to his feet, “that’s a bad tumble.”
“Ricos fouled him on purpose,” cried the Woodpecker.
A groan ran round the stand. “They are both down—no, only one.”
“Which one?” cried Adelaide.
“I don’t know,” I replied, but I held her down firmly on my shoulder, for I saw a rose-coloured bath-robe skimming across the field like a pink comet, and I knew that Stacey would not have manifested such concern if an accident had happened to Ricos.
“Armstrong’s up!” yelled the trainer in the jockey cap. “He’s mounting again!”
“He is!” ejaculated Mr. Van Silver. “By George! Jim’s the pluckiest little fellow I ever saw in my life!”
For an instant the spectators went crazy with cheers, then they quieted down and watched.