A RACE TO BE REMEMBERED.
It was not a social meal, anything but that, and they were glad when it
was over. Warren Courtly, irritable and ill at ease, spoke once or twice
to his wife in such a manner that Ulick glared at him savagely; he
noticed it, and enjoyed it.
Unfortunately, Warren was going from bad to worse. He realised the truth
of the saying that evil communications corrupt good manners. At his club
he played bridge and lost large sums. On the racecourse he tried to
repair these losses, with the inevitable result. His fortune, at one
time ample, gradually dwindled away, and he knew that if he did not pull
up Anselm Manor would be in the market in a couple of years or so.
Irene had no idea things were as bad as this; her mind was occupied with
other matters. The knowledge she possessed of her husband's conduct
towards Janet Todd and Ulick she found burdensome. She was positively
certain Ulick would not tell the Squire, and she felt he ought to know,
but she had promised Janet to tell no one but her husband. When she left
them to retire for the night, Warren commenced to talk about racing. He
had a substantial bet about Sandstone for the Derby at very fair odds,
and was sanguine of winning. He discussed the race with Ulick, who was
of the same opinion that Sandstone would win.
"If he does," Ulick remarked, "I should put part of the winnings on my
horse for the Coronation Cup."
"Your horse!" exclaimed Warren. "I had no idea you owned one."
"More than one--several," replied Ulick; "but the Saint is the best."
"You own the Saint!" said Warren, more and more surprised. "I have heard
it said he is the best three-year-old we have."
"He is not far short of it," he replied. "At least, that is the opinion
of Fred May, and he is a very good judge."
"You are lucky to own such a colt. Where did you pick him up?"
Ulick explained how he came to possess him, and Warren said, grumbling,
that some people had all the luck.
"I have been deuced unfortunate of late," he went on, "and a big win is
the only way out of the difficulty that I can see. If Sandstone lands
the Derby I will have a plunge on your horse. I am much obliged to you
for telling me."
"I shall be glad to hear of your winning a good round sum," replied
Ulick. "I was sorry to hear you were compelled to part with Holme Farm."
Warren's face clouded. He had heard quite enough about that, and said--
"I don't see what there is to make such a fuss about. Something had to
go; why not that part of the estate as well as another?"
"My father says he would have given you half as much again for it."
"I could not have accepted it; he would merely have done it out of
kindness."
Ulick thought this probable, and knew his father would do that, and
more, for Irene's sake.
The Squire arrived at the Walton, and was feverishly anxious for the
Saint's race to be decided. Fred May had sent glowing accounts of the
colt's progress, and considered he had a chance second to none.
"We will show them what he is capable of this time; it will be the race
of his life. He has never been quite so fit as he is now, and I fear
nothing, not even Vulture," he wrote.
"By Jove! that is good news," said the Squire. "The olive green will
win, my boy."
On Derby Day they all went to Epsom, where Redmond Maynard had a box,
and the great scene was repeated as it has been for many years.
It was one of the sights of the world, most uncomfortable, but unique.
Sandstone won somewhat easily, and Warren was jubilant. He meant to
invest the bulk of his winnings on the Saint.
He confided to Irene that if Ulick's colt won his difficulties would be
well-nigh at an end.
"I had no idea you were in difficulties," she said.
"Not very serious," he replied, in an off-hand manner, which did not
deceive her, "but still bad enough to be unpleasant."
Thursday, the day after the Derby, was fixed for the Coronation Cup, and
the half-dozen horses that were likely to go to the post were all great
performers.
It was a meeting of champions, a race to be remembered, and a thorough
sporting affair. The crowd was much larger than usual on this day, and
the race was looked forward to with as much eagerness as the Derby had
been the previous day.
Warren Courtly was in a fever of excitement. He had backed the Saint to
win him several thousands, and when he saw him in the paddock felt
inclined to put more on.
The colt's peculiar colour rendered him easily distinguishable, and he
was mobbed in the paddock, taking it as unconcernedly as usual.
Ben Sprig was to ride him again, and he felt a trifle anxious as to the
result. He had never been beaten on the Saint, having scored five
victories in succession; but he knew the five horses he was to meet in
about a quarter of an hour were probably the best in the country.
Vulture had won the Derby the previous year, as easily as Sandstone, and
followed it up by a St. Leger victory. Coralie, a handsome mare, had an
Ascot Gold Cup to her credit. Avenger made hacks of the last Cesarewitch
field. Decoy Duck was an Eclipse winner; and Mermaid landed the Oaks in
Vulture's year. Well might men gasp and exclaim, "What a field. It beats
the Derby into a cocked hat."
No wonder the betting was fast and furious, and backers were split up
into half-a-dozen parties. It was the more venturesome speculators who
stood by the Saint. The old hands preferred one of the other tried
stayers.
"It is too much to expect of him," they said of the Saint. "It's more
than Sandstone could do, and look how he won the Derby yesterday."
Vulture was favourite, then Coralie and Avenger, and the Saint figured
at eight to one.
"It is a real good price," said the Squire. "I must have a hundred on,"
and when he had booked that he longed for more, hesitated a moment or
two, and then doubled it.
Irene caught the fever and made Warren put a "pony" on for her.
Ulick had a small amount going, and Warren had plunged.
Cautious Fred May departed from his usual custom of having "a tenner on"
and invested fifty, and had done the same for Ben Sprig, who was not
supposed to indulge in such iniquitous practices, for fear of the
far-reaching arm of the stewards of the Jockey Club. Ben was a cautious
man, and could conscientiously say he had never made a wager in his
life--it was always done for him.
Great was the excitement as the horses went on to the course. Vulture,
wearing the stars and stripes of his American owner, was first out, his
jockey sitting crouched on his withers--an ugly sight, but often
effective. Then came the handsome Coralie, in purple and scarlet,
followed by Avenger's yellow and red cap, with Decoy Duck and Mermaid
close behind.
"There's only five of 'em," said one spectator. "Where's the other? What
is it?"
"The Saint, of course; Ben Sprig's up, he's always last out."
The Saint cantered slowly down as the others galloped past, and Ben,
whipping him round, followed in the rear before half the onlookers were
aware the colt had come out of the paddock.
Away they went to the famous Derby starting-post. Here Vulture showed
his scant respect for decorum by lashing out all round, and in a final
flourish tried to dash through the tapes, but did not succeed.
After a quarter of an hour wasted by these vagaries on the part of the
favourite, the half-dozen started on their journey.
Coralie dashed off with the lead, followed by Vulture and Avenger, with
the other three close up. It was evident it was to be a race from start
to finish between the lot. They disappeared from view, and as they came
in sight again, the mare still led, and the horses ran wide. The
half-dozen were all on terms with each other. Tattenham Corner was
reached and the crowd on the new stand cheered wildly as they swept
past. It was here that Ben Sprig always looked out for a chance of
gaining a few lengths. He wanted them more than ever on this occasion,
and meant getting them if possible. He hugged the rails, and kept the
Saint well in hand. He lost no ground but he gained none, as they were
all adopting similar tactics, and none of the horses ran wide. The
half-dozen seemed dangerously heaped together as they rounded the bend,
and the crowd on that part of the course anticipated a spill, but
happily it did not occur. Coralie led down the hill, the purple and gold
glittering and shining royally in the sunlight.
The party in the Squire's box were unusually excited, which was not to
be wondered at. Fred May was invited to join them, and he was more
anxious than he had ever been before over the result of a race.
He had said he "feared nothing," with the Saint, and meant it. If he had
a dread of one, it was Vulture, for he knew him to be a great horse,
despite his temper.
"They keep their places," said the Squire, "but I fancy the Saint is
drawing up a trifle."
Warren Courtly was very pale, and his hand shook as he held his glasses.
Irene glanced at him, and thought--
"Much depends on this race, or he would not be like that." She turned to
Ulick, who stood at her side, and said, "You take it coolly, are you
confident of winning?"
"Yes, I think he will win; I know Ben is riding a splendid race, and
saving him for the finish up the rise. That is where it tells."
"I do hope he will win, Ulick," she said.
He looked into her eyes and read more than he dared hope for.
Coralie had run well, but now they were racing in deadly earnest.
Vulture wrested the lead from her, and his giant stride told its tale.
He shot out like a greyhound, and a great shout greeted the favourite's
move. Avenger was close on his heels, and Ben was gradually creeping up
with the Saint.
They were in the hollow now, in full view of the crowded stands, and the
battle was watched with the greatest interest.
Not more than five lengths between the six horses--a sight seldom seen
in such a race. Decoy Duck and Mermaid were in the rear.
"I am afraid he will hardly do it," said the Squire, "but what a race it
is; there will be no disgrace in being beaten."
Warren Courtly bit his lip and looked desperate. Would the Saint get up
and win? It seemed impossible; and yet the trainer and Ulick looked
confident, so there must be a chance. The victory of Ulick's horse meant
much to him, of his defeat he dare not think.
Seething with excitement, the vast crowd surged wildly, and roar after
roar proclaimed the desperate nature of the struggle.
Ben Sprig knew the time had come when he must ask the Saint to go one
better than he had ever done before. He knew what a good colt he was, he
never doubted his courage, but in front of him was Vulture, a more than
ordinary Derby winner, Avenger, the Newmarket crack, and the handsome
Coralie. He knew he had the Ascot Cup winner at his mercy, he fancied
Avenger would have to play second fiddle to the Saint, but what about
Vulture? Would he be able to catch him, and, if he did, beat him? For
the first time since he had ridden the Saint he doubted. Vulture was
three lengths ahead, and striding along without a falter. It seemed
almost impossible to catch him, but Ben knew the impossible often became
the possible with a good horse. Win he must; the Saint should not lower
his colours; the olive green should never strike to the stars and
stripes, and he, Ben Sprig, the exponent of the old school of riding,
would not succumb to the efforts of that crouching little Yankee in
front of him. Ben felt the blood tingle in his veins, and his heart beat
fast.
The Saint felt his grip, and knew it meant mischief. The colt was full
of fire, he never had flinched, and he never would.
Who that saw it will ever forget that memorable moment on a memorable
day? Who that heard them will forget the ringing cheers, the shouts of
victory? Who forget the sight of that flash of olive green, which seemed
to shoot forward with lightning speed? Ben Sprig fancied he was being
hurled through space; even he had never expected this of the Saint.
Ulick's colt passed Coralie like a flash, drew level with Avenger, beat
him, and ran up to the Vulture's quarters before people had time to
grasp the wonderful feat.
Fred May shouted for joy; he forgot he was a trainer, and therefore
expected to regard everything as a matter of course. Ulick shouted, the
Squire waved his hat, Warren Courtly sat down, the strain was too great,
and Irene felt a peculiar swimming sensation in her head.
Vulture's jockey was not caught napping--Americans seldom are--and he
rode his best, but he had met his match. The grim determination of the
elder man was not to be denied. Ben Sprig felt his honour was at stake,
he must "beat this kid." The two magnificent thoroughbreds struggled
desperately, they fought for victory as only "blue bloods" can, and they
knew what it all meant as well as the riders. There is no sight in the
world so thrilling as the final struggle of two gallant racehorses; it
is the highest form of sport, the most soul-stirring scene a man can
behold; he becomes part and parcel of the battle going on before his
eyes.
Vulture and the Saint were level, the stars and stripes and the olive
green were locked together. Only for a second or two it lasted, and then
Ulick's colt gained the vantage, and "Mr. Lanark's" champion won the
Coronation Cup by a short head, after one of the grandest struggles ever
witnessed on any course.