Then came the familiar silence, while every eye was riveted on the confused onward sweep over the curved tan--that silent half-seen sweep, which, for all its dimness, its silence to the outward ear and eye, holds in it from the first, a sob, a strain of fiercest effort for the inward sight and hearing.
So, at the curve, the trail of horses clustered, spread out again, settled for the straight run home!
'Bonnie Lesley's had it in her pocket from start to finish, Jerry,' said Jack Raymond, suddenly lowering his glasses.
'By Jove! I wish I'd----' He broke off and raised the glasses again.
But by this time others had seen that the little brown mare was coming home to her stables cheerfully, and a blank half-irritated surprise began to leaven the suspense.
Then a voice--Mr. Lucanaster's--said, 'What a rotten race!'
It was, to many; yet as the little mare neared the spectators, there was something in the bronze gleam of her straining muscle, something in the deer-like bound of her forward sweep, something in the eager head with its full anxious eye, outstretched as if to pass the post a second sooner, something in the slack swing of a pair of green sleeves telling of a win, hands down, which made every sportsman present forget personal disappointment in a surge of admiration for the game little beast.
'By Jove! Raymond!' said one of the judges as he passed out, 'what a flyer! I'd give something to own her!'
'I'd give something to have known her,' corrected another. 'Twenty to one! Ye Gods! What a chance for my widow and orphans!'--
'Who gave you the tip, Jack?' asked an envious voice.