It was a clever bit of jockeyship on the part of the rider, a marvellous run on the part of the horse, and the combined effort drew forth a hearty cheer.
The rider of Pinkerton had not expected this; he fancied the Saint was shut in on the rails, and would have to go round him on the outside. When he saw the olive green jacket on the other side of Kit Cat, it is needless to say he was surprised.
Pinkerton was not beaten, and as the pair cleared Kit Cat a tremendous race home ensued. It was a thrilling moment. Pinkerton had won over this course, and that was in his favour. The Saint had not run on it before. The four-year-old and the three-year-old struggled gamely on, with a difference of twelve pounds between them.
Ulick was excited; he had not seen the Saint in such a tight place before, and he hoped he would get out of it.
The horses were close to the winning post, a few more strides would decide it. They fought out every yard of the ground. Ben Sprig was a great finisher. He graduated in a good school, and he clung to the old tradition that a bit left for a finish is worth a hundred yards at any other part of the race.
His face was set, and his little eyes gleamed. His small hands gripped the reins firmly, his knees pressed the Saint's sides, and he helped the horse all he knew how. The olive jacket and the blue were level, the next few strides would do it; which would win?
A moment of suspense, a second or two of breathless silence, then a mighty shout.
"The Saint! The Saint!"
Ulick echoed the cry.
"The Saint wins!" he shouted.