“All right.”
“Get ’em; come on, then, Hilt. I’ll gallop back to the paddock like the wind. There’ll be some scene-shifting there by now, and the bookies working the oracle, for the news was flying when I came away that my mare was to be scratched.”
“Ha,” cried Sir Hilton. “We’ll scratch ’em, old girl. She must—she shall win.”
“Three cheers for the gentleman-rider!”
“But my wife—my election?”
“What! Win the race, and you’ll win the seat, old man. Can’t you see?”
“Only the saving of the money we have on.”
“What! Not that the popular sporting rider who won the cup will win no end of votes to-day?”
“Ah, to be sure. Yes, of course,” cried Sir Hilton, excitedly. “Be off. I’ll join you at the hotel. My word! I seem to be coming to life again, Hetty. I can hear the buzzing of the crowd, the beating of the hoofs, the whistling of the wind, and see the swarming mob, and yelling of the thousand voices as the horse sweeps on with her long, elastic stride.”
“First past the post, Hilt.”