Of course it was no use his resisting. Amid the shouts and jeers of his schoolfellows he was held on to the box. In vain he pleaded, besought, struggled, threatened; there he was compelled to stay, all through Gurley and out to the racecourse. Here he found himself in the midst of a yelling, blaspheming, drunken multitude, from the sight of whose faces and the sound of whose words his soul revolted so vehemently that it lent new vigour to his exhausted frame, and urged him to one last desperate struggle to free himself and escape from his tormentors.
“Look here,” said Belsham to Gus; “if you suppose I’m going to have all my fun spoiled by looking after this cub of yours while you’re enjoying yourselves there inside, you’re mistaken; here, look after him yourselves.”
So saying, he dragged Charlie from his seat and swung him down into the waggonette with such force that he lay there half stunned and incapable of further resistance, and so for the time being saved his persecutors a good deal of trouble.
And indeed had it been otherwise it is hardly likely they would have just then been able to pay him much attention, for at that moment the horses were all drawn up at the starting-post, waiting for the signal to go.
That was a feverish moment for Tom Drift. He had bet all his money on one horse, and if that horse did not win, he would lose every penny of it.
As usual, he had repented a hundred times of that day’s business, and the last brutal outrage on poor Charlie had called up even in his seared breast a fleeting feeling of indescribable shame. It was, alas! only fleeting.
Next moment he forgot all but the horses. There they stood in a long restless line. A shout! and they were off. In the first wild scramble he could catch a sight of the colours on which his hopes depended near the front. On they came like the wind. A man near shouted the name of Tom’s horse—“It’s winning,” and Tom’s head swam at the sound. On still nearer, and now they have passed. In the retreating, straggling crowd he can see his horse still, but it seems to be going back instead of forward. Like a torrent the others overhaul and pass it. Then a louder shout than usual proclaims the race over, and the favourite beaten, and Tom staggers down to his seat sick and half stupid.
“Never mind, old man,” he heard Gus say, “luck’s against you this time; you’ll have your turn some day. Take some of this, man, and never say die.”
And Tom, reckless in his misery, took the proffered bottle, and drank deeply.
It was late in the afternoon before Belsham thought of turning his horse’s head homeward, and by that time Charlie, on the floor of the waggonette, was slowly beginning to recover consciousness.