Magistrate was round again, and being ridden back. ‘Jimmy’ rested his glasses a moment, and looked down. Swarms in the Cheap Ring, Tattersalls, the stands—a crowd so great you could lose George Pulcher in it. Just below a little man was making silent, frantic signals with his arms to someone across in the Cheap Ring. ‘Jimmy’ raised his glasses. In line now—magenta third from the rails!
“They’re off!” The hush, you could cut it with a knife! Something in green away on the right—Wasp! What a bat they were going! And a sort of numbness in ‘Jimmy’s’ mind cracked suddenly; his glasses shook; his thin, weasley face became suffused and quivered. Magenta—magenta—two from the rails! He could make no story of the race such as he would read in to-morrow’s paper—he could see nothing but magenta.
Out of the dip now, and coming fast—green still leading—something in violet, something in tartan, closing.
“Wasp’s beat!” “The favourite—the favourite wins!” “Deerstalker—Deerstalker wins! What’s that in pink on the rails?”
It was his in pink on the rails! Behind him a man went suddenly mad.
“Deerstalker! Come on with ’im, Stee! Deerstalker’ll win—Deerstalker’ll win!”
‘Jimmy’ sputtered venomously: “Will ’e? Will ’e?”
Deerstalker and his own out from the rest—opposite the Cheap Ring—neck and neck—Docker riding like a demon.
“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope wins! She wins!”