“By Jove! He 'll go down if he rushes like that,” cried the men in the box. But he did not. He hardly appeared to see the fence before him any more than he heard the jeers of the crowd. With high head and pointed ears, he dashed at it, taking it in his stride, and clearing it with a mighty bound.
The crowd in the stands, carried away, burst into a storm of applause, and the gentlemen about the young girl of the big white hat clapped their hands.
Old Robin, down in the paddock, was shouting and talking volubly to a crowd of strangers.
“He 's a jumper! He 's got de pedigree. Dat 's blood. You ain' see my old master's hosses befo'.”
“Your old master's horses!” growled a gruff voice behind him. “You made me lose fifty dollars on yer blanked horse wid yer blanked lies. You 'll pay it back or yer won't see that watch ag'in.”
Robin glanced at the angry pawnbroker, but he did not have time to argue then. The horse galloping up the long slope before the stables engrossed his attention. He simply edged away from his reviler, who went off to “hedge” his bets, if possible.
“He 's a good horse, but he 's out of the race,” said one of the gentlemen who had been bantering Miss Ashland.
“Yes, but he never had a chance—a mere flash. You can't expect a common pick-up to run against a field like that.”
Mr. Newby turned back to the girl, who was leaning forward watching the horse going over the hill.
“Well, Miss Catherine, ready to ask terms yet?”