Someone behind said:
“The favourite's beat! No, he's not, by Jove!” For as though George's groan had found its way to the jockey's ears, he dropped his whip. The Ambler sprang forward. George saw that he was gaining. All his soul went out to his horse's struggle. In each of those fifteen seconds he died and was born again; with each stride all that was loyal and brave in his nature leaped into flame, all that was base sank, for he himself was racing with his horse, and the sweat poured down his brow. And his lips babbled broken sounds that no one heard, for all around were babbling too.
Locked together, the Ambler and straw ran home. Then followed a hush, for no one knew which of the two had won. The numbers went up “Seven-Two-Five.”
“The favourite's second! Beaten by a nose!” said a voice.
George bowed his head, and his whole spirit felt numb. He closed his glasses and moved with the crowd to the stairs. A voice behind him said:
“He'd have won in another stride!”
Another answered:
“I hate that sort of horse. He curled up at the whip.”
George ground his teeth.
“Curse you!” he muttered, “you little Cockney; what do you know about a horse?”