The Hate of London was not in the face of Talliaferro.... As he rode, the heavenly lifting of the moment almost pulled him out of the race at hand.... “Win—ride to win!... Routledge-san!”... He spurred. The black answered. Veritably, he was a night-streak whirring cableward.... Routledge knew every step of the way. The day would have been lost, were he forced to halt for direction.... Past the Rest House, through the mud-hut quarter, breaking a detachment of Sikh infantry, he led the race—Bingley, unable to gain, back in the shadows, shouting, rowelling!
There was some meaning to his words, but Routledge did not think of them, until the gun-talk.... One shot stood out by itself—and four followed.... The black sprawled.... Routledge found himself coughing, but cleared grandly from the fallen mount, and crossed the threshold of the cable-office. He realized that he had fallen with the mount, but it made no impression. His hands were bleeding. He met the dust full-length. He knew that he staggered a bit as the operator leaped over the counter and caught him in his arms....
“I’m Weed of the World-News.... Borden arranged for me. Here’s the copy, credentials, cable-permit.”
“I’ve been waiting for you, Weed.... You’re shot—my God!”
Bingley entered, his face terrible but frightened. He glanced at the man who had beaten him—from head to foot.... Routledge was leaning against the counter, his clothing caked with dust, a laugh on his face, dripping blood from a wound under his coat.
“I didn’t mean to hit you—I tried to get your horse!” Bingley gasped.
“You did. Go out and finish him.... You’re not much of a shot from the saddle—or perhaps you lost your nerve, Bingley.... Any way, I am long over-due for a wound.... Get a surgeon. I’m hard-hit. Hurry!”
Routledge dropped forward on the counter, closing his eyes. Bingley disappeared. The operator was unfastening his clothes.
“Don’t mind me—until the doctor comes—but start my stuff going.... By the way, in a couple of hours, if it goes steadily, break in on my stuff and give Bingley a head-line in the Thames to-morrow. He only meant to get my horse—I see that. A man takes liberty in shooting a horse from under another—but never mind. There’s always room for two at the top!”