“I cannot understand it,” replied his companion.
Three or four impatient sounds from the bell, and the jockeys have straightened themselves and made ready for the start. A word, a lick and a click and—yes, wonderful to relate, the flag falls! Off? Yes, really off! Whoever saw a better go! Away they speed, neck and neck!
Two mile heats! Breathless, the people lean forward to watch them, as they grow dimmer in the distance. Now on they come! As they near the quarter-stretch they still keep together, and pass beneath the string in the same order. So far, it is a beautiful race. Again they come! Men and boys shout wildly as they see a gap, a little gap, when they turn once more.
“I dare not look!” said Emory. “Reg., tell me!”
“The black is behind.”
“And the bay?”
Before the reply came, a flash of red went alone under the string and the first heat was over!
The boy sprang from the horse and tottered against the blacksmith, who was near at hand. The yelling, surging crowd almost overpowered them. Neil approached and asked if the boy was sick or hurt.
“Curse it!” he swore, harshly, “don’t give in, Jack! Hold the lad up! Here, give him this!” and he took a cup of brandy from the groom who was about to pour it on his horse’s back and put it to the lips of the boy, who, with a quick, low cry, broke away, dragging the blacksmith through the dust.
“Keep back!” yelled Jess. “He’s all right!”