Down the back stretch they raced in a compact bunch, the blue and brown on the rail, the black horse of Satanelli, like an avenging demon, hanging on to Ixion’s quarter, the rest close behind, ready to aid in the devilish work cut out for them by the chief conspirator.
In reality it took but a few seconds, though it seemed minutes, until the far turn was reached. Here the blue and brown, the all yellow of Satanelli, the violets and greens and pinks and blacks and reds and all the other colors of the jockeys, became merged in a maze to the bishop. Whether the positions had changed, how his son was faring, he could only guess by the disjointed utterances of the man beside him. Halloran, on tiptoe, breathing heavily, and with head turning slowly, followed the movements of the racers. The bishop had a sensation of faintness steal over him. For a space he feared he would lose consciousness.
“Oh! Mother of mercies!”—from Halloran. “They pinched him off at the far turn! Bumped into again! He’ll never win now. If the stewards don’t take action now——”
A heavy foot was raised and stamped the ground savagely.
His breath coming in gasps, the bishop watched the expression of the other to try and read the fate of his son. To him the race itself was as a closed book.
Around the far turn they had swept, and the bishop, looking at the other’s face, listening intently, caught the words:
“They’ve got Ixion pocketed. He’ll never get through. If he tries, they’ll put him over the fence, sure. Ye young devils, ye’ve done your work well.”
Now they had reached the turn for home. They had rounded it. A black horse, with the all yellow, was in the lead, a jockey, white and black checks, was alongside, half a length away, both at the whip. Two lengths back, in the middle of the ruck, seemingly hopelessly beaten, apparently shut off with no chance to get through, was the blue and brown.
Between Ixion and the rail two horses nearly on even terms with him; in front Satanelli on Hotspur, and Blashford, the second choice, carrying the black and white “magpie” colors; on Ixion’s whip side a beautiful brown filly, with gray and magenta, the filly so tired she was ready to lean against Ixion’s heaving flank.
So with those in the “first flight,” the racers came down the stretch in a whirlwind finish, the vast crowd, in a frenzy of excitement, shouting frantically, hysterically, the names of the two leaders, Hotspur and Blashford, for it seemed certain one or the other was sure to win. Halloran was silent.