The horse, too, had his life in the race. Unheeding the wild waving of the old trainer's arms, he swept by him with head still up and ears still forward, his eyes riveted on the horses galloping in front of him. Once or twice his ears were bent toward the big fence as if to gauge it, and then his eyes looked off to the horses running up the slope beyond it. When he reached the jump he rose so far from it that a cry of anxiety went up. But it changed to a wild shout of applause as he cleared everything in his stride and lighted far beyond the water. Old Robin, whose arms were high in the air with horror as he rose, dropped them, and then, jerking off his hat, he waved it wildly around his head.
“He can fly. He ain't a hoss at all; he 's a bud!” he shouted. “Let him go, son; let him go! You 'll win yet.”
But horse and rider were beyond the reach of his voice, galloping up the slope.
Once more they all disappeared behind the hill, and once more the leaders came out, one ahead of the others, then two together, then two more, running along the inside of the fence toward the last jumps, where they would strike the clear track and come around the turn into the home stretch. The other horses were trailing behind the five leaders when they went over the hill. Now, as they came out again, one of the second batch was ahead of all the others and was making up lost ground after the leaders. Suddenly a cry arose: “The yellow! The orange! It 's the countryman!”
“Impossible! It is, and he is overhauling 'em!”
“If he lives over the Liverpool, he 'll get a place,” said one of the gentlemen in the club box.
“But he can't do it. He must be dead,” said Mr. Newby. “There goes one now. The red-jacket 's down.”
“I 'm out,” said Mr. Galloper. “He 's up all right.”
“He 'll get over,” said the girl. “Oh, I can't look! Tell me when he 's safe.” She buried her face in her hands.
“There he goes. Oh!”