"By G—," said the sly-looking little man, "I thought there was something up. The very best hand in England going to ride his own horse. I'll be off to back him."
The tall youth before alluded to turned deadly pale, but not a word did he utter as he walked away.
In less than five minutes it became known in the ring and the stands that George Bradon was to ride his own horse. The utmost consternation ensued and many tried to hedge off their bets—but little or nothing could be done.
In the meantime our friend was quietly getting himself ready in the dressing-room.
The time at last came, the horses were saddled, and cantered.
"Here comes Guardsman," cried the crowd, as the gallant horse came sweeping up the course in magnificent style, with the gray beside him.
"By heaven!" muttered a well-known betting-man, and one of the best judges in Europe, "a truly splendid horse—far better in appearance and style than anything here. Bar accidents, he will win in a canter, and if he does, I'm ruined."
The betting and other men were positively paralyzed as Bradon and his horse came sweeping by, and it was allowed on all hands that no such animal as Guardsman had been seen for years.
"There, my boys," said Lord Plunger, dashing into the ring, "there's a man and horse for you. If he does not do the trick to-day I shall be very much astonished; and if he does, we shall both land a handsome sum, which you will drop."
The anxious moment is at last come, the horses are in line—the old stud-groom, Tim Mason, stands close by, with wipers, sponge, and bottle in hand. There is a curious nervous twitching at the corners of his mouth, the lips are dry and parched, and two small red spots adorn each cheek.