“Give you millions against—just one word,” Hilary whispered; then aloud: “Is it a bet?”
“Say yes, Miss Allys,” Billy entreated. “You ain’t trustin’ to my judgment—remember that—but to the blood of Blink Bonny.”
“I take you up,” Allys said, nodding to Hilary. As well this way as any other, she thought—besides, she could hold him off as long as she chose. Her father would stand by her loyally—he was in no haste to see her established. Besides, this was what she had always craved—to watch a race with a heartrending wager on its event.
“Here they come!” Billy shouted, dropping his glass, and flinging up his head.
Up course the rainbow line had at last held steady, then, as the tape flew up, bellied out like a sail in gusty wind, and been rent into flecks and tatters. The lightweights, of course, were in the foremost of the flecks and tatters—all, that is, save the Heathflower thing, who came absolutely last. Tim’s orange jacket and scarlet sash were dust-dimmed by the time he came to the stand. But right in front of him were Aldegonde’s tiger stripes, black and yellow, and the blue and white in the saddle of Aramis.
“Last all the way—eh, Miss Allys?” Adair said, leaning across Billy, who would have given back but that Allys clung to him in silence, her eyes glued to the glass, flushing and paling, her breath coming quicker even thus early in the race.
There were open lengths all along—the lightweights were bent on making it a runaway race. Billy knew they could never do it. A horseman born and made, he marked their stride, and understood even better than their jockeys how much the killing pace was taking out of them. It did not astonish him that in the outstretch, before a mile had been run, three of the first flight chucked it up, falling back, back, till even the Heathflower thing showed them her heels. At the mile there were more counterfeits proven—as the race swept down upon the stand the second time there were but seven of the original contenders really in it. The rest were tailing hopelessly. One or two even pulled up. But the Heathflower thing was among the seven, and keeping place right behind the favorites.
Allys clutched Billy’s arm so hard her fingers half buried in it. She was getting the thrills she had pined for with a vengeance, now that her freedom, her future, were to be colored by the issue of the race.
The Heathflower thing could not win, of course; still, it was pure delight to have her so far redeem herself. If she was even near the real contenders at the finish, Billy’s faith would be justified. So many, at shorter odds, had already fallen out, there would be distinction in staying all the way.
If the impossible happened, the Heathflower thing won, then she would have Hilary in a very proper frame of mind. Losing always hurt him dreadfully—it would be gall and wormwood to have lost to such a winner. She felt this rather than thought it—connected thought indeed was impossible in view of what was happening out on the course.