For an instant the pony faltered. Then urged on by the pounding hoofs behind him passed the last temptation. And was on the final stretch for the goal post.
Faster. Faster! A length, two lengths, three lengths ahead. Cynthia shouted wildly, pounded a fist on the harris tweed shoulder and yelled with the others. “Go on ... Snail ... go on! ... Go on! ... Home! ... Ah..h..h!”
The race was over. “And quite fitting that it should have been won by the Snail,” dryly remarked the owner of the harris tweed shoulder.
Cynthia came out of her daze and gaped at him. It was the nice twinkley man she had seen in the chapel this morning, the one who had come to the monastery with his wife.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, feeling very hot and red in the face. “Did I pound you to a jelly? Races are pretty exciting, aren’t they?”
“They certainly are,” he agreed cheerfully. “And that was a most surprising one.”
“Do you suppose he really won?” asked Cynthia, carefully following the man down the steep narrow steps. “I don’t imagine it will be allowed like that, without a rider, will it?”
The man laughed. “Well, this is Italy, you know, and after all they may figure it was a race for horses, not jockeys. And the horse certainly came in ahead. But let’s go and find out,” he suggested. “By the way, my name is Lewis, though I believe we have met before, even if you didn’t know my name.”
“How do you do, Mr. Lewis. I’m pleased to meet you I’m sure,” stated Cynthia with mock primness. “And now that’s over, we’re both from the States, I gather, and my name is Wanstead. Didn’t your wife come to the races?”
Mr. Lewis shook his head. “If it had been Longchamps, or Saratoga ... But she wasn’t interested in a little Italian hick town race. Oh, here we are, and I imagine there’s little doubt about the winner.”