At last, just as he had pictured it from old recollections of a minor race he had once seen, there was the shouting and bawling of the odds, the clearing of the course, and then the preliminary canter of the ten competitors, among which he now made out the colours of Simoom, a big ordinary-looking horse, with nothing to draw attention to it, while the three first favourites of the cognoscenti were the perfection of equine beauty, and their admirers shouted with excitement as they flashed by.
Then, after five false starts, each of which was maddening to Chris, who, while thinking the worst, could not help a gleam of hope piercing the dark cloud which overshadowed him, the cry arose that they were off, and amid a babel of sounds, as the parti-coloured throng of jockeys swept along the green course and disappeared, spasmodic cries arose, “Lady Ronald,” “Safflower—Safflower leads,” “Rotten race,” “The favourite shows ’em all her heels,” “Look! The favourite!”
The horses, after a period of silence, had swept round into sight again, and it was seen that three were together, then there was an interval, and there were four, another interval, and the rest behind.
The second group excited no notice, save from Chris, who made out that his horse was with them; and while every eye was fixed on the exciting race between the favourite and the two horses which strove hard to get abreast, there was suddenly a yell of excitement, for Simoom all at once shot out from among the second lot, and going well, with her jockey using neither whip nor spur, began rapidly to near the leaders.
The shouts increased, and a thrill ran through Chris as he saw the plain-looking mare glide on, but apparently too late to overtake the others.
Another roar as it was seen that the favourite’s jockey was beginning to use his whip, and the roar increased as Safflower was level with her shoulder, was head to head, was head in front, and the next moment, hopelessly beaten, the favourite was passed by Lady Ronald as well, who now challenged Safflower, and they were racing level for fifty yards.
The excitement grew frantic. “Safflower! Lady Ronald! Safflower! Safflower!”
“No, no, no!” shouted a man on Chris’s left. “Look!”
Chris heard all he said, and stood there bending forward, his lips apart, and eyes starting, as if turned to stone, living a very life in those seconds, as, amid a roar like the rushing of the tempest itself, the contemned mare came on.
“By George, sir, if the course had been a hundred yards more, she’d have won,” roared the man on Chris’s left. “Safflower’s done. It’s Lady Ronald; by—, no. Hurrah! Simoom! Simoom!” and in the midst of the frantic excitement, the mare upon which Chris’s hopes were fixed passed Safflower. There was a quick touch of the whip and she was alongside of Lady Ronald, and then Simoom’s nose showed in front, and in the next few bounds she was half-a-length ahead, and swept past the post—winner.