“What chance has he?”
“I have not the least idea, Miss Hannay. I did not hear any betting on this race at all.”
“That is a nice horse, uncle,” Isobel said, as one with a rider in black jacket, with red cap, came past.
“That is Delhi. Yes, it has good action.”
“That is mine,” the eldest Miss Hunter said.
“The rider is a good looking young fellow,” the Doctor said, “and is perfectly conscious of it himself. Who is he, Wilson? I don't know him.”
“He is a civilian. Belongs to the public works, I think.”
The other horses now came along, and after short preliminary canters the start was made. To Isobel's disappointment her horse was never in the race, which Delhi looked like winning until near the post, when a rather common looking horse, which had been lying a short distance behind him, came up with a rush and won by a length.
“I don't call that fair,” Miss Hunter said, “when the other was first all along. I call that a mean way of winning, don't you, father?”
“Well, no, my dear. It was easy to see for the last quarter of a mile that the other was making what is called 'a waiting race' of it, and was only biding his time. There is nothing unfair in that, I fancy Delhi might have won if he had had a better jockey. His rider never really called upon him till it was too late. He was so thoroughly satisfied with himself and his position in the race that he was taken completely by surprise when Moonshee came suddenly up to him.”