"I am afraid he will hardly do it," said the Squire, "but what a race it is; there will be no disgrace in being beaten."
Warren Courtly bit his lip and looked desperate. Would the Saint get up and win? It seemed impossible; and yet the trainer and Ulick looked confident, so there must be a chance. The victory of Ulick's horse meant much to him, of his defeat he dare not think.
Seething with excitement, the vast crowd surged wildly, and roar after roar proclaimed the desperate nature of the struggle.
Ben Sprig knew the time had come when he must ask the Saint to go one better than he had ever done before. He knew what a good colt he was, he never doubted his courage, but in front of him was Vulture, a more than ordinary Derby winner, Avenger, the Newmarket crack, and the handsome Coralie. He knew he had the Ascot Cup winner at his mercy, he fancied Avenger would have to play second fiddle to the Saint, but what about Vulture? Would he be able to catch him, and, if he did, beat him? For the first time since he had ridden the Saint he doubted. Vulture was three lengths ahead, and striding along without a falter. It seemed almost impossible to catch him, but Ben knew the impossible often became the possible with a good horse. Win he must; the Saint should not lower his colours; the olive green should never strike to the stars and stripes, and he, Ben Sprig, the exponent of the old school of riding, would not succumb to the efforts of that crouching little Yankee in front of him. Ben felt the blood tingle in his veins, and his heart beat fast.
The Saint felt his grip, and knew it meant mischief. The colt was full of fire, he never had flinched, and he never would.
Who that saw it will ever forget that memorable moment on a memorable day? Who that heard them will forget the ringing cheers, the shouts of victory? Who forget the sight of that flash of olive green, which seemed to shoot forward with lightning speed? Ben Sprig fancied he was being hurled through space; even he had never expected this of the Saint.
Ulick's colt passed Coralie like a flash, drew level with Avenger, beat him, and ran up to the Vulture's quarters before people had time to grasp the wonderful feat.
Fred May shouted for joy; he forgot he was a trainer, and therefore expected to regard everything as a matter of course. Ulick shouted, the Squire waved his hat, Warren Courtly sat down, the strain was too great, and Irene felt a peculiar swimming sensation in her head.
Vulture's jockey was not caught napping—Americans seldom are—and he rode his best, but he had met his match. The grim determination of the elder man was not to be denied. Ben Sprig felt his honour was at stake, he must "beat this kid." The two magnificent thoroughbreds struggled desperately, they fought for victory as only "blue bloods" can, and they knew what it all meant as well as the riders. There is no sight in the world so thrilling as the final struggle of two gallant racehorses; it is the highest form of sport, the most soul-stirring scene a man can behold; he becomes part and parcel of the battle going on before his eyes.
Vulture and the Saint were level, the stars and stripes and the olive green were locked together. Only for a second or two it lasted, and then Ulick's colt gained the vantage, and "Mr. Lanark's" champion won the Coronation Cup by a short head, after one of the grandest struggles ever witnessed on any course.