“Bootles glanced up, and waved his hand, and—er—the old party called Berwry turned wound and eyed her sharply, saw the scarlet, purple, and gold of her dwress, looked at her card, and said, witheringly, ‘Ow, I don’t know him,’ as if there were a dozen Captain Ferwers knocking about, and this was one of the eleven she didn’t know.
“Well, when the wrace was over—er—who should come up but Miles.
“‘Ah, Miles,’ said I, ‘I—er—heard a laday expatiating just now on your extrwreme beauty and gwrace and elegance of person—was shaw you’d win. What a pity you didn’t!’
“‘Bless my soul!’ said Miles; ‘was she pretty?”
“‘Oh, don’t be flattered; she took you for Bootles,’ said I, ignoring the question.
“‘Bootles’s money again!’ cwried Miles, with a gwreat wroar of laughter.
“Well, in two twos up comes Bootles. ‘See me win, Mignon?’” said he.
“So I—er—told him the stowry too, and Bootles laughed that absurd ‘Ha! ha!’ of his. ‘Come along and have some lunch, Mignon, my sweetheart,’ said he, ‘and let’s be out of this.’”
But it was after this incident that the most important event of that bright May day occurred—one of those fearful struggles to win, when half a dozen horses show well for the post, and all the field finds tongue and shouts its hardest.
“Ferrers wins! Blue and fawn—yellow and black! Miles wins—Miles wins! No, no; Ferrers in front—fawn and blue! Hartog—Hartog—Hartog wins! Miles in front! Ah, he’s down! Ferrers—Miles—blue and fawn—Gilchrist gains—Miles—Gilchrist—Ferrers wins—Ferrers wins! All up with the others! Ferrers WINS!”