Let us count the starters. One, two, three, four, five, six. Mr. Crasher’s Chance, blue, and white sleeves (owner); Major Brush’s Down-upon-’em, “gorge de pigeon,” crimson cap (owner); Mr. Savage’s Luxury, scarlet, and black cap (Mr. Stripes); Mr. Brown’s Egg-Flip, white (owner); Mr. Green’s Comedy, by Comus, black and all black (Mr. Snooks); and lastly, Mr. Sawyer’s Wood-Pigeon, plum-colour, and blue cap (owner).
The latter’s appearance excites considerable admiration, as he takes his breathing canter. Wood-Pigeon is a remarkably handsome animal; and Mr. Sawyer, at a little distance, looks more like a jockey than any of them, with the exception of the redoubtable Stripes.
Old Isaac goes up to his master for a few last words before the flag drops. “You mind the double comin’ in,” says the wary old dodger. “Close under the tree’s the best place, ’cause there’s no holes in the bank; and, pray ye now, do ye sit still!”
A faint exclamation from Miss Dove proclaims they are off. Out with the double-glasses! From the carriage, we can see them the whole way round.
One, two, three! They fly the first fence in a string, Chance leading. The Honourable means to make running all through. Wood-Pigeon is a little rash; but Mr. Sawyer handles him to admiration. He goes in and out of the double posts and rails like a pony.
This difficulty disposes of Mr. Snooks, who lets Comedy by Comus out of his hand, falls, and never appears again.
The others increase the pace, as the lie of the ground takes them a little downhill towards the brook. As they near it, you might cover them with a sheet; but, while the whole increase their velocity, Chance and Wood-Pigeon, the latter followed closely by Mr. Stripes on Luxury, single themselves out from the rest. All three get over in their stride; and a faint shout rises from the crowd on the distant hill. Egg-Flip jumps short, and remains on the further bank with his back broken, the centre of a knot of foot-people, who congregate round him in a moment, from no one knows where. Down-upon-’em struggles in and out again, striding over the adjacent water meadow as if full of running; but Brush is far more blown than his horse. His cap is off, his reins are entangled, he has lost a stirrup, and it is obvious that the Major’s chance is out.
The race now lies between the leading three; and Crasher, who has great confidence in Chance’s pedigree and stoutness, forces the running tremendously. He and Sawyer take their leaps abreast, the latter riding very quietly and carefully, mindful of old Isaac’s advice, to “sit still.” Luxury is waiting close upon them.
“That fellow has been at the game before,” remarks Parson Dove, eyeing Mr. Stripes through his glasses, and struck with admiration at the artistic manner in which that gentleman pulls his horse together for the ridge-and-furrow.
The Parson is not far wrong. Few professionals would care to give Mr. Stripes the usual allowance of five pounds.