The weighing is over, and Screwdriver mounted. Fortescue's colours are crimson, with gold braiding. Capt. O'Rooney's are all green. Both gentlemen look thorough jocks, and sit their horses easily and well; but there is a look of the older hand about the Captain.
"Who will lay me two to one against Screwdriver?" cried out a sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat. "I'll do it to any amount up to a thousand."
"I'll take you even money for a hundred," said a flashily-dressed man on a bay horse.
"I want odds, sir," said the little man; "but as I see there is no betting to be done here, make it two hundred and I'll take you."
"Done," said the other. And the bets were booked.
All is now excitement, for the horses are walking away to the starting-post. The judge had locked himself up in the little box allotted to him, which has been lent by the race committee, but little did he think he would see such a close finish.
"They're off!" is the cry, as the two horses are seen cantering across a field.
"Fortescue's leading," said Lord Plunger, with his field-glasses to his eyes.
"Oh, papa, hold me up so that I may see," said the beautiful and anxious Miss Gwynne.
The eyes of scores were on her as she stood up, for all the gentry were well aware in what relation she stood to Fortescue.