“Oh, is he down!” she panted.
“Jove! No—he 's over clear and clean, running like a streak,” said the gentleman, with warm admiration. “He 's safe now. Only two more hurdles. It 's all clear. That boy is riding him, too.”
The girl sprang to her feet.
“Give me your glasses. It is—it is! He 's safe!” she cried. She turned to Newby who stood next to her. “Ask quarter and I 'll let you off.”
“He 'll never be able to stand the track. It 's fetlock-deep.”
But at that moment the horses turned into the track, and the real race began. Newby's prophecy went to the winds. As was seen, the leaders were riding against each other. They had dropped out of account all the other horses. They had not even seen the brown. The first thing they knew was the shout from the crowd ahead of them, blown down to them hoarsely as the big brown horse wheeled into the stretch behind them. He was ahead of the other horses and was making hotly after the four horses in the lead. He was running now with neck outstretched; but he was running, and he was surely closing up the gap. The blood of generations of four-mile winners was flaming in his veins. It was even possible that he might get a place. The crowd began to be excited. They packed against the fences, straining their necks.
How he was running! One by one he picked them up.
“He 's past the fourth horse, and is up with the third!”
The crowd began to shout, to yell, to scream. The countryman, not content with a place, was bent on winning the race. He was gaining, too.
The two leaders, being well separated, were easing up, Hurricane, the bay, in front, the black, the favorite, next, with the third well to the rear. The trainers were down at the fence, screaming and waving their arms.