A stake-fence, a hedge, a ditch, and beyond that a clear stretch to the winning-post.
At the fence, Carnaby sees "The Terror's" black head some six yards behind; at the hedge, Barnabas has lessened the six to three; and at the ditch once again the great, black horse gallops half a length behind the powerful gray. And now, louder and louder, shouts come down the wind!
"The gray! It's Carnaby's gray! Carnaby's 'Clasher' wins! 'Clasher'!
'Clasher'!"
But, slowly and by degrees, the cries sink to a murmur, to a buzzing drone. For, what great, black horse is this which, despite Carnaby's flailing whip and cruel, rowelling spur, is slowly, surely creeping up with the laboring gray? Who is this, a wild, bare-headed figure, grim and bloody, stained with mud, rent and torn, upon whose miry coat yet hangs a crushed and fading rose?
Down the stretch they race, the black and the gray, panting, sobbing, spattered with foam, nearer and nearer, while the crowd rocks and sways about the great pavilion, and buzzes with surprise and uncertainty.
Then all at once, above this sound, a single voice is heard, a mighty voice, a roaring bellow, such, surely, as only a mariner could possess.
"It's Mr. Beverley, sir!" roars the voice. "Beverley!
Beverley—hurrah!"
Little by little the crowd takes up the cry until the air rings with it, for now the great, black horse gallops half a length ahead of the sobbing gray, and increases his lead with every stride, by inches—by feet! On and on until his bridle is caught and held, and he is brought to a stand. Then, looking round, Barnabas sees the Marquis rein up beside him, breathless he is still, and splashed with mud and foam, but smiling and debonair as he reaches out his hand.
"Congratulations, Beverley!" he pants. "Grand race!—I caught Carnaby—at the post. Now, if it hadn't been for—my cravat—" But here the numbness comes upon Barnabas again, and, as one in a dream, he is aware that his horse is being led through the crowd—that he is bowing to some one in the gaudy pavilion, a handsome, tall, and chubby gentleman remarkable for waistcoat and whiskers.
"Well ridden, sir!" says the gentleman. "Couldn't have done it better myself, no, by Gad I couldn't—could I, Sherry?"