Wilfred felt much encouraged, and proportionately grateful to the fair friend who had stood by him and his unknown steed. So he registered a vow to remember her in the future—to like and respect and approve of her—in short, to pay her all those guarded tributes which men in early life keep for the benefit of women they admire, trust, and look up to, but alas! do not love.
Among his few well-wishers must be classed Wilfred’s sisters and mother, who, honestly pleased to see him ‘respeckit like the lave,’ as Andrew would have said, secretly thought that he looked handsomer and better turned out when mounted than almost anybody else in the race—in fact, nearly as well as Bob Clarke. But even these partial critics could not assert to themselves, when they saw Master Bob come sailing past the stand upon Bolivar, a dark bay thoroughbred, looking like a brown satin angel (Bolivar, not Bob), as one enthusiastic damsel observed, that he equalled in appearance and get-up that inimitable workman. Still, he looked very nice, they lovingly thought, and of Wilfred’s clear complexion, brown hair, well-knit frame, and animated countenance other fair spectators held a like opinion.
Grey Surrey came next, ‘terrible’ for a mile, and owing to his Arab ancestry, a better stayer than might have been thought from his violent manners. His rider’s admirably fitting nether garments, the wrinkles of his boots, the shading of his tops, were accurate to a degree. His bright blue colours had many a time been in the van. Kindly and affable in the widest sense, with a vein of irresistible comic humour, he was the most popular squatter in his district—a man of whom none thought evil—to whom none would dream of doing harm more than to the unweaned child. To a rare though not too sedulously cultivated intellect Fred Churbett joined the joyous disposition of a moderate viveur, the soul of a poet, and the heart of a woman. But the gold held not the due proportion of alloy—too often, alas! the case with the finer natures.
The comprehensive cheer which the whole assemblage instinctively gave showed their appreciation. From the crowd (not so many as on the previous day, but still were the people not wholly unrepresented) rose cries of ‘Well done, Mr. Churbett! Hope you’ll win again. Grey Surrey and The She-oaks for ever!’
And as the silky flowing mane glistened in the sun, while the proud favourite arched his neck and with wide nostril and flashing eye trod the turf with impatient footstep, as might his Arab ancestors have spurned the sands of Balk or Tadmor, every friend he had on the course, which comprehended all the ladies, all the gentlemen, all the respectable and most of the disrespectable persons, thought that if Fred Churbett and Grey Surrey did not win yet another victory, there must be something reprehensible about turf matters generally.
Probably, in order that the ladies might have a liberal allowance of sport in recompense for their contributions, and partly in compliance with the undeveloped turf science of the day, the fashion of ‘heats’ had always been the rule of this race. Thus, when Grey Surrey came in leading by a length, with Bolivar and No Mamma racing desperately for second place, every one of experience stated that the third, or even the fourth, would be the deciding heat if Bolivar or No Mamma was good enough to ‘pull it off’ from the brilliant Surrey. Wilfred had adopted the advice he had received from Mr. Greyford, and while keeping a fair place, had taken care to save his sluggish steed. He nevertheless managed to come through the ruck without apparent effort during the last part of the running, and finished an unpretending fifth.
On delivering over his horse to Mr. Greyford’s trainer, he was gratified to find that he had won that official’s unqualified approval by his style of riding. ‘There isn’t a mark on him, sir,’ he said; ‘and that’s the way to take him for the first couple of heats. Mendicant’s a lazy ’oss, and an uncommon queer customer to wind up. But if Surrey don’t win the next heat—and I think Mr. Forbes’s No Mamma will give him all he can do to get his nose in front—it’s this old duffer’s race, as safe as if the rest was boiled.’
‘But how about Bolivar?’
‘Well, sir, Bolivar and No Mamma are a-cuttin’ their own throats the way they’re a-bustin’ theirselves for second place, and if you go at whatever wins the third heat from the jump, and take it easy the next ’un, you’ll have this ’ere bag to a moral.’
Returning from this diplomatic colloquy to the vortex of society, Wilfred found himself to be already an object of interest in sporting circles. Much advice was tendered to him, and counsels offered as to his future plan of action, but as these were mostly contradictory, he thought himself justified in holding his tongue and abiding by the professional opinion of the stable.