The race had created a good deal of attention from the time it was first organized. It showed a heavy entry, the terms were fair, a large sum of money was added, public runners were heavily weighted, the nominations included many horses that had never been out before. In one way and another the United Service Handicap had grown into the great event of the meeting.
The best of friends must part. Denis could not resist the big double, taking up a position whence he might hurl himself at it, in imagination, with every horse that rose. Mr. Sullivan, more practical, occupied a familiar spot that commanded a view of the finish, and enabled him to test the merits of winner or loser by the stoutness with which each struggled home.
Neither had such good places as Miss Douglas and Miss Macormac. Norah knew the exact angle from which everything could best be seen. There, like an open-hearted girl, she insisted on Blanche taking her seat, and planting herself close by. The General leaned over them, and Mrs. Lushington stood on a pile of cushions behind. She had very pretty feet, and it was a pity they should be hid beneath her petticoats.
A bell rang, the course was cleared (in a very modified sense of the term), a stable-boy on an animal sheeted to its hocks and hooded to its muzzle (erroneously supposed to be the favourite), kicked his way along with considerable assurance, a friendless dog was hooted, a fat old woman jeered, and the numbers went up.
"One, two, five, seven, eight, nine, eleven, fifteen, and not another blank till you come to twenty-two. Bless me, what a field of horses!" exclaimed the General, adding, with a gallant smile, "The odd or the even numbers, ladies? Which will you have? In gloves, bonnets, or anything you please."
The girls looked at each other. "I want to back Satanella," was on the lips of both, but something checked them, and neither spoke.
Macormac, full of smiles and good humour, in boots and breeches, out of breath, and splashed to his waist, hurried up the steps.
"See now, Norah," said he. "I've just left Sir Giles. He's fitting the snaffle himself in Leprauchan's mouth this minute, and an awkward job he makes of it, by rason of gout in the fingers. Put your money on the chestnut, Miss Douglas," he continued. "Here he comes. Look at the stride of him. He's the boy that can do't!"
While he spoke, Leprauchan, a great raking chestnut, with three white legs, came down the course like a steam-engine. No martingale that ever was buckled, even in the practised hands now steering him, could bring his head to a proper angle, but though he went star-gazing along, he never made a mistake, possessed a marvellous stride, especially in deep ground, and, to use a familiar phrase, could "stay for a week." "Hie! hie!" shouted his jockey, standing well up in his stirrups to steer him for a preliminary canter through the crowd. "Hie! hie!" repeated a dozen varying tones behind him, as flyer after flyer went shooting by—now this way, now that—carrying all the colours of the rainbow, and each looking like a winner, till succeeded by the next.