Putting his foot on a rolling stone, he had been unable to clear his leap, though he made a gallant effort. Striking heavily, he went down on the farther side.
His rider, sitting well back, and never for one instant losing his proverbial coolness, was able to save him as much as, under the circumstances, a horse can be saved. Down on nose and knee only went the good horse, his rider falling close to his shoulder, and never relinquishing the reins. Both were on their feet in an instant, and before the crowd had well realised the fact, or the ‘I told you so’ division had breath to explain why St. Andrew must fall if the pace was kept really good, Charlie Hamilton was in the saddle and away, with his teeth set and a determination not to lose the race yet, if there was a chance left. Bargo came up with calculated pace and line, and performed his exercise with the same ease and precision as if he had been practising at a leaping bar. Cornstalk baulked again, and this time with sufficient determination to lose him half a mile. Wallaby gave his rider a nasty fall, breaking his collar-bone and preventing further efforts. While King of the Valley, going reasonably up to this stage, overpowered his rider at last, and hardly rising at his fence, rolled over, and did not rise. He had broken his neck, and his rider was unconscious for twelve hours afterwards. The race therefore lay between The Cid, St. Andrew, and the safe and collected Bargo, coming up pedo claudo, and with a not unreasonable chance, like Nemesis, of appearing with effect at the close of the proceedings.
The next marked division of the course was known as ‘the hill,’ an eminence of no great altitude between two farms, but possessing just sufficient abruptness to make the fence a more than average effort. This ‘rise,’ as the country people called it, lay about three-quarters of a mile from home, and the horse that first came down the long slope which led towards the winning-post, divided from it but by several easy fences, had a strong chance of winning the race.
Before The Cid reached the base of this landmark, still keeping the pace good, but going comparatively at his ease, it was apparent that Hamilton, who had been riding St. Andrew for his life, and had indeed resolved to tax the courage and condition of the good horse to the last gasp, was closing in upon his leader. ‘Sitting down’ upon his horse, Charles Hamilton extorted praise from the assemblage by the determination with which he fought a losing race. He was well seconded by the son of Camerton, as, extending himself to the utmost, he flew fence after fence as if they were so many hurdles.
‘What a pity poor St. Andrew came down at that abominable place!’ said Annabel. ‘I really believe he might have won the race. He was not so far behind Mr. Clarke when he disappeared behind the hill.’
‘He’s only playing with him, I’m afraid,’ said Mr. Hampden kindly. ‘Hamilton and his horse deserve to win, but that fall made too great a difference between horses so evenly matched.’
‘The Cid’s heart’s not in the right place,’ here broke in an admirer of Miss Christabel’s, who had been cut down by the fascinating Bob. ‘You know that, Hampden. I saw him refuse and lose his race, which he had easy in hand, at Casterton. He might baulk at that sidling jump behind the hill yet. It’s a nasty place.’
‘I believe he will too,’ said Fred Churbett, staunch to the Benmohr colours. ‘We ought to see them soon now; they’re a long time coming. Take all the odds you can get, Miss Annabel.’
‘Will you take seven to four, Churbett?’ said Mr. Hampden. ‘I know The Cid’s peculiarities, but I’ll back him out, and my countryman, Bob Clarke, as long as there is a Hereford at Wangarua.’
‘Done!’ said the friendly Fred; ‘and “done” again, Mr. Hampden,’ said Bob’s rival.