"Three hundred will be useful," said Mr. Dashwood. "Gad, I wish I'd been here sooner, and I might have got on at twenty-five to one. However, there's no use in grumbling. Look! there's the numbers going up!"
French watched the numbers going up.
"Sixteen runners," said Dashwood.
"Ay, ay," replied French. "Sixteen, it is."
"Garryowen is Number 7," said Dashwood.
"Look!" said French.
The horses were leaving the paddock. Wheel of Fortune was first out—a bad omen, according to racing men; after Wheel of Fortune came White Moth, Royal George, Satiety, and Garryowen. They were a beautiful picture in the bright April sunlight.
"It's Wheel of Fortune or Garryowen," said Dashwood, who was half-mad with excitement. "French, I'd put my last penny on Garryowen, but the Wheel's a wonder. Ain't they beauties, the pair of them! Make the rest look like dowagers!"
French contemplated his horse as it galloped up the course following Wheel of Fortune. He could not but admire the favourite, but at the moment Garryowen dominated his every thought, and the extraordinary thing was he had almost forgotten money in connection with the race; a mad longing to win for the sake of winning possessed his whole soul. It pleased him Garryowen was so well matched. To beat Wheel of Fortune would be a triumph.