Tom Bulteel, red-faced, blue-eyed, taciturn, with Gay beside, and his wife and Rensslaer behind him, tooled his bays down to the next Trotting Meeting, and tried to look as pleasant as the character of the big crowd and unwonted surroundings permitted. The attendance was a record one, the front of the track thronged with people, while the number of conveyances of all kinds, from waggonettes to nondescript traps, was altogether phenomenal, for it was the expectation of seeing Miss Lawless drive again, and also the possibility of Rensslaer doing so, that had brought down a strong contingent of the press. A multitude of snapshotters attended her every look and movement, those, however, who expected an Amazon, found a pretty, modest little girl, very quietly dressed, under the powerful ægis of the well-known Captain and Mrs. Bulteel, and the boisterous half-cheer of greeting from the Ring that broke forth at sight of her when the coach swept up, was somehow never finished.
Probably if Rensslaer had not been present at her recent new departure, and displayed such an obvious interest in her, no particular scandal would have attached to it, and Gay's driving herself been regarded merely as the bold freak of a free-and-easy young lady, who went in for a free-and-easy sport, and as such applauded. But his close attendance had focussed public attention upon her, inclining an eager trotting world to the belief that she had converted him to her views, and that shortly he would bring his enormous experience, superb driving, and splendid cattle to the sport, thereby giving it a tremendous leg-up. But in this also, as in Gay's case, they were disappointed, for neither then, nor at any subsequent time, did Rensslaer repeat his performance on the Gold Cup day.
Min Toplady was there, and greeted Gay with effusion when the latter went over to speak to her, but nervously, too, for those "snapping fiends," as she called them, who pursued Gay everywhere, more than ever brought home to Min the conviction that this Trotting business was a hideous mistake on the part of so young a girl, and that Gay's daring escapade had cheapened, and inflicted a distinct loss of prestige on her. Thanks, however, to the countenance afforded by Captain Bulteel and his wife, as they made a tour of the track, she was everywhere received with a silence that passed for respect, instead of the familiar badinage that Min dreaded, though if Gay appeared to notice nothing, she was really having a very bad quarter of an hour, and longing for it to be over.
Just before the second race, she and Rensslaer strolled quietly down to the rails to investigate the cause of a long delay, which was really owing to the drivers all jockeying for a good start, when the face of a little man in orange, driving a handsome pacer, suddenly became such a vivid study in emotions of fear, astonishment, and horror, as made Gay glance quickly at her companion for an explanation.
"It is only that he thought me in Paris," said Rensslaer drily, "so is driving my private sulky that I keep here for occasional use," and Gay's face changed as she thought of that delicious unlawful drive of hers, when Brusher Tugwood had, unknown to her, borrowed Rensslaer's wagon, and its owner by accident had seen her, and so a new and delightful friendship had come into her life.
Anyway, her mania had not been all loss—and then, as much against his will, owing to false starts, the guilty little man passed, and repassed them, a fresh expression on his face every time, and all intensely diverting, Gay laughed more heartily than she had done for days past.
"What will you do to him?" she inquired, wiping her eyes, when at last the horses had started, the lightness and grace of Rensslaer's wagon showing in favourable contrast to the clumsy make of the English ones, but he only shook his head; she knew well enough he would do nothing.
They leaned forward, watching the race, and soon it was apparent that a collision was inevitable, as the man in the orange jacket unfairly overhauled the leader; the next moment, the wheels of both sulkies locked, and the driver of the one "fouled," fell heavily on the track.
"Badly hurt, I'm afraid," said Rensslaer, and Gay turned pale as she saw through her glasses the faces of the crowd that had closed round the prostrate man. Almost at the same moment, a cheer rang out, for the driverless horse decided to race on his own account, pacing past in grand style, and going much better on his own, than when under control. It really was a remarkably pretty sight as he went round the course four times at the rate of 2.40 a mile, before he caught a wheel, and was easily stopped.
"There's nothing to beat it, really," exclaimed Gay with some of her old enthusiasm, for she honestly thought a trotter or pacer going his fastest, a far greater example of the poetry of motion than a racehorse. "But do go and find out if that poor fellow is very much hurt. It was a bad day for you when you came out, my little man," she remarked to herself as Rensslaer departed—"first to be caught, then to 'foul' and half-kill your rival"—for soon she saw a sad little procession winding away, and Rensslaer returned to tell her that the driver's injuries were very serious, and that he was on his way to a local hospital.