Flash! They are past the winning-post, and the race is ended.
"Look! Look!" cried Dashwood.
It was impossible to tell the winner from the ring. Till the number went up the two men stood eyes fixed on the man at the board.
"Seven!" cried French as the number went up, and in the voice of a person who sees what he cannot believe.
"Hurroo!" cried Dashwood. "I told you he would! Garryowen for ever!"
* * * * *
Mr. Giveen and his new-found friend, Mr. Welsh, arrived at Epsom by an early train and took up a position near the ring. Giveen was quite unconscious that his kinsman French had entered Garryowen for the City and Suburban. He knew that the horse had been destined to run in some race, but he knew as little about race-meetings as bazaars, and he never even glanced at the race-card which Mr. Welsh gave him. He was entirely taken up by the crowd, and half addled by the noise around him.
Mr. Welsh had been joined at the station by a very evil and flashy-looking individual who frankly called himself Lazarus, perhaps because it would have been a waste of time and energy to have called himself anything else; and Mr. Welsh, having introduced Mr. Lazarus to Mr. Giveen, the trio proceeded to the course.
Here Mr. Welsh, who was dressed for the occasion in the most amazing check suit that ever left Petticoat-lane, took his stand on a tub provided by Mr. Lazarus, and proceeded to address the crowd in a language that was Greek to Mr. Giveen. But the effect of Mr. Welsh's words was quite understandable to him. Individuals came forward, one after another, talked more Greek to Paddy Welsh, received coloured tickets from Mr. Lazarus, and handed him money, which he deposited in a bag by his side.
As time wore on, and the moment of starting drew near, Mr. Welsh on the tub became less a man than a volcano emitting sound instead of lava, and the more Mr. Welsh shouted, the more individuals were sucked towards him, and the more money poured into the bag of the perspiring Lazarus.