In a few minutes the horses were off. There were eight runners, and a lightly-weighted one cut out the work at a strong pace. They strung out a bit over the first few fences, with the favourite Musketeer always nicely placed, and Chris on Beeswing lying handy.
Gay watched the race keenly, describing all the running to Mrs. Bulteel, who noted that most of her remarks concerned Chris.
"Watch him now," she exhorted. "Up! Well over! That's the way to ride over fences. Chris calls it the gentle art of sitting back. He says you can't sit back too far."
As the horses passed them she called out, "Well done, Chris! Well done!" in girlish delight. She looked her very best just then, the cold air heightening her colour, her grey eyes almost black with excitement and pleasure.
A fall occurred at the fence before the water, but the rest got safely over, and Musketeer began to improve his position little by little. He was ridden by a jockey who had steered two Grand National winners, and Chris knew too much of the skill of the man to let him get too far ahead if he could help it, so he too sharpened up a bit. As they approached the last fence he saw he had only the favourite to beat, and from the way his own horse was going, he felt he had his measure.
They rose together, and for a few strides ran side by side, Chris going easily, while the other was "niggling" with his hands. Chris improved his position, calling out "Good-bye, Arthur!" having no desire to be caught "napping" by such a consummate artist at finishing as his opponent. He drew away with a length's lead, and in a flash out came the whip on the favourite, who responded gamely, and for a stride or two (or so it seemed to anxious Gay) looked like catching Chris.
But to even a poor judge of racing it was all over. Chris had a lot in hand, and galloped home an easy three-lengths winner, the jockey on the favourite ceasing to persevere when he saw it was hopeless. He was a fine horseman, and a merciful man, a combination by no means common.
"After all," said Gay, with a rapturous sigh, "I'm not sure that I would not rather see Chris win a race, than take the Gold Vase with one of my Trotters!"
"Why not do both, my dear?" said Effie dryly, "so long as you don't take Carlton Mackrell as well."