Before the final heat he found Fireball Bill walking the veteran up and down, with a serious and thoughtful countenance. ‘Look ’ere, sir, don’t you make too sure of this ’ere ’eat afore you’ve won it. The old ’oss seems right enough; he’s bound to win if he stands up, but I don’t like the way he puts down that near foreleg. It’s allers been a big anxiety to me. He might go away as sound as a roach and crack up half-way round. But you make the pace from the jump, and keep ’em goin’, or else one on ’em ’ll do yer at the bloomin’ post.’
‘What chance is there of that?’
‘Every chance, sir. You mind me. I’m a man as has follered racing since I was the height of a corn-bin, and I knows the ways on ’em. Mr. Clarke ain’t easy beat, nor Mr. Hamilton neither. They’ll go off steady, yer see, as if there was no use tryin’ to pass yer, along o’ their havin’ busted their ’orses in them ’eats as went afore.’
‘And a very natural idea. It seems a pity to knock them about, after all they’ve done.’
‘We’ve got to win this race, sir, and a race ain’t won till the numbers is up. Now, Mr. Bob Clarke’s dart is jest this. If he sees you don’t keep the old ’orse on his top, he and Mr. Hamilton will wait on yer, savin’ their own ’orses till they come to the straight. Then they’ll go at you with a rush, and there’s no hamatoor in Australia can take as much out of a horse in the last ten strides as Bob Clarke. You’re caught afore the old ’orse can get on to his legs, and the race is snatched out of the fire by nothin’ but ridin’ and head-work, and we’re—smothered!’
‘Beaten and laughed at! I understand clearly, Bill. I shall always think you have had more to do with the winning of the race than I have.’
‘That’s all right, sir, but keep it dark. All this is confidential-like between the trainer and the gen’leman as rides. There goes the bell again. I can hear Mr. Rockley cussin’ all the way from where he stands. Here’s your ’orse, sir; you’ve got to win, or kill him!’
Delivering over the unsuspecting Mendicant with this sound professional but scarcely humane injunction, Fireball Bill gazed after his charge, and scrutinised the leg he suspected him of ‘favouring.’ ‘He’s right!’ he finally exclaimed, after anxious deliberation; ‘but if I hadn’t primed the cove, ’e’d a’ lost that race, sure’s my name’s William Scraper.’
Wilfred rode on his way in dignified fashion, as befitting the position of probable winner, but in his heart a feeling of thankfulness to the old trainer by whose advice he had escaped a catastrophe. What a mortification it would have been; how the vane of public opinion would have veered round! He trembled to think of it; and as he drew up after the others, he hardened his heart, resolved that no artifice of the turf should mar his triumph that day.
His rivals went off with an assumption of indifference, as if merely going round for form’s sake; but he took the old horse by the head and sent him away as if he was riding against Time from end to end. His two chief antagonists—for O’Desmond had very properly withdrawn his colt—waited at a reasonable rate of speed until it became apparent that Mendicant’s rider had no intention of altering his pace. Then they set to, and by the way they came up, showed how accurate was Fireball Bill’s calculation.