Not so with our friend. He sits his noble animal with confidence, ease, and grace, and as cool as a cucumber. Spying out his faithful old servant, he said, "What do you think of him, Tim?"
"Why, sir," he called out, "he's the best horse as was ever foaled; and if he don't beat that lot"—pointing with extreme contempt towards the line of horses—"Tim Mason knows nothing about it, and is jolly well d——d."
The word is at last given, and at the first attempt the lot are off.
"They're off!" shouted the hoarse voices of thousands, and streaming along were some thirty gallant animals striving for the pride of place—thousands, nay hundreds and hundreds of thousands, depending on the lucky animal that first caught the judge's eye.
The conspicuous colours of George Bradon—scarlet and white hoops—were in the extreme rear, but suddenly as they got into the grass land his gray took first place and made the pace a cracker.
"The gray in to pump the field," muttered the sly-looking little man to his neighbour.
"The fastest thing I have ever seen," said another. "By jingo, one, two, three down, and look, Bradon is taking quite a line of his own. By George, how well his horse jumps; it's a dead certainty."
"So I think," returned the other.
There is an awful tailing off now, the pace has told its tale; only eighteen or twenty are really in it. The dangerous brook and the double bank are passed, and the gallant gray who has set the field has shot his bolt.
"Well done, Harry," cried George, as he passed him. "Well done, pull him up."