SANDOWN GRAND MILITARY
"Heron," cried Gay, waving a letter at him, across the breakfast
table one morning early in March, "I've got an invitation for you!
Effie and Tom Bulteel are taking their coach down to Sandown to-day,
and they want us to go with them. I heard all about it the other
night," she confided laughingly, "but I knew if I told you of the
treat that was in store, you'd plead an engagement, or shuffle out of
it somehow, and I _do_ so want you to come! A day in the open will
do you no end of good, and you'll get a ripping lunch (the
Professor's face brightened a little), though you'll have to do
without your afternoon nap, you know, unless you get inside the
coach."
The Professor moved uneasily in his chair.
"Why do you drag me into all these things?" he asked pathetically.
"You know how I detest society, and you promised to leave me in peace
if I went to the dance with you."
"Yes, I know," Gay agreed, "but Effie made quite a point of your
coming to-day; you--you amuse her so, you know."
The Professor did not appear struck with this form of flattery, and
half suspected that it was a plot between Gay and Mrs. Bulteel to
make him appear to throw a mantle of respectability over his sister's
racing divagations. Yet he had a sneaking desire to see for himself
what there was in racing to make so many empty-headed people happy,
and when he feebly urged that he had got nothing to wear, she knew
that the game was won.
"Oh, yes, you have," she replied promptly, "that pepper and salt suit
of yours--you know, the one you wear on your holidays. It's quite
respectable--quite sporting-looking, in fact--and you can wear your
'Trilby' hat. (She exploded inwardly.) Altogether your rig-out's
splendid, and I shouldn't wonder if people took you for a trainer!"
Frank Lawless looked offended, and made another attempt to escape.
"I shall be entirely out of it," he said. "There is much to do in
there"--he nodded towards the distant laboratory. "Can't you make
some excuse for me?"
"No, I can't," the girl answered firmly. "You're very seldom seen
anywhere with me, you know, Frank, and people must wonder whether my
brother is not a myth. Once you start, you're sure to enjoy
yourself, and perhaps there'll be a job for you if one of the
soldier-jockeys comes to the ground."
But even the prospect of a "case" did not console the Professor.
"I hope not," he said gravely; "you shouldn't joke about such things,
Gay," and he shook his head reprovingly.
"Truly, I hope it won't be Chris," the girl answered, drumming her
fingers on the table, and looking thoughtful. "He's riding in the
Gold Cup, you know--a horse he trained himself."
"Well," said the Professor with a deep sigh, "as it appears to be my
duty, I'll come. I hope they won't talk horses to me, though,"
looking up anxiously.
"If they do, agree with everything they say," Gay instructed him,
"because you don't know enough to contradict, do you?"
"I have my own ideas," he answered complacently, while Gay devoutly
hoped he would give utterance to none of them, or she foresaw a rude
awakening before him.
"We must leave here by eleven for Eaton Square," she said, "so toddle
upstairs in half-an-hour, and change your clothes. I'll put
everything out for you, including a pair of race-glasses, so you'll
_look_ the part, at any rate, even if you don't feel it."
When the Professor reappeared again, after an absence of an hour, he
looked very nice and archaic, as Gay told him, though by no means
happy.
"I am cold," he announced (and indeed his own skin was always his
first consideration), looking down at his well-worn suit; "these are
summer clothes, you know."
"It's a glorious day," Gay informed him; "but of course you'll want a
top-coat. It'll be cold driving back, I expect."
When they arrived in Eaton Square, the Professor was hoisted on to
the coach where he held on with both hands, and otherwise delighted
Effie during the drive. His conversation was of a spasmodic
character, interrupted by backward glances over his shoulder whenever
a corner was turned, and he heaved an audible sigh of relief when the
coach drew up in the enclosure.
Effie surveyed the scene with approval. Her sympathies were not
particularly with the racing, indeed she only regarded it as a
necessary evil connected with bringing a crowd of people
together--and this was a very smart crowd certainly.
She focussed her glasses on the moving throng in the members'
enclosure, open for this meeting only, to non-subscribers in the way
of soldiers, and their wives and sweethearts, and here and there she
recognised someone she knew.
The Professor was cautioned on all sides to take care of himself, but
Gay took possession of him, and hurried him off to the paddock to
tout the horses for the first race. There were several walking round
in a circle on the crest of the hill, and while Gay stood as close to
them as she could get, checking the numbers on the lads' arm-badge
with her card, her brother kept at a more than respectful distance.
Presently a lad walking a horse up behind him, nearly frightened him
out of his wits with a business-like "By y'r leave, please," and he
executed a wild leap to safety, to the intense amusement of the
onlookers.
Catching Gay's eye, he scuttled over to her, and tried to get her
away from the charmed circle, prophesying hysterically a kick from
one of the horses.
"Don't be absurd, Frank," she replied, watching with interest each
one as it passed; "horses can't kick when they're walking. They're
not cows."
The Professor remained unconvinced, however, and was greatly relieved
when Gay moved off in the direction of the weighing-room to see the
numbers and jockeys, but the frame with the mixture of figures and
names conveyed nothing to his mind.
"Halloa! Chris rides No. 9 in this," Gay exclaimed, "let's see what
it is. Here we are--Mr. M'Nab's Irish Knight, four-year-old, 10st.
7lb. I wish we could find Chris; it may be a good thing--what he
calls a 'pinch.'"
At that moment Chris Hannen came out of the weighing-room. A thick
frieze overcoat, cut to the knee, disclosed a thin kid workman-like
pair of boots, he wore a white scarf round his throat, while his head
was surmounted with a dark blue racing-cap. He was busy chatting
with the owner of Irish Knight, but as he passed through the gate
into the paddock, his quick eye noticed Gay, while a second
astonished glance discovered the Professor.
He at once left his companion, and came quickly towards them.
"How are you, Gay?" he cried eagerly. "Morning, Professor! Lovely
day for jumping, isn't it? Hope you won't be wanted" (the Professor
shuddered). "Excuse my apparent rudeness in not taking off my cap,
Gay, but I've been tied into it."
Gay thought, with a pang, how drawn he looked, "but how
workman-like!" a moment after.
"You didn't tell me you had two rides to-day," Gay said, as the three
walked off to look at the horse.
"No," Chris replied, as they turned down the hill on the left to the
saddling-stalls. "I didn't know myself till just now. M'Nab
couldn't do the weight himself, so he asked me."
"And is it a jewelled-in-every-hole, compensated-balance 'pinch,'
Chris?" Gay asked, laughing, as she stood by watching the trainer
place the tackle on Irish Knight.
"I'm afraid not, though I've got more than an outside chance. I
can't advise you to gamble heavily on this occasion, but perhaps a
trifle each way will show a profit. You ought to get ten to one in
this field."
The horse was led out, and Chris took off his coat, and handed it to
the lad. His owner, looking very disappointed at not having the ride
himself, saw Chris chucked up, then walked beside him to the
plantation avenue leading to the course. As they disappeared, with a
wave of the hand from Chris, Gay turned to her brother, and cried
enthusiastically:
"Doesn't Chris look ripping on a horse? And can't he ride, too,
just! Let's get on the stand and watch the race, and I _must_ have
half-a-sovereign even, and place on him for luck."
With one of the men on the rails she placed her wager, getting
eight's and even money for a place, then she and the bewildered and
annoyed Professor mounted the stand, to watch the horses go down.
There were nine runners, all soldier-ridden, a well-known amateur who
rode a lot in Ireland being up on the favourite.
They all got safely over the first two fences, and as they galloped
past the enclosure, Gay pointed out Chris's scarlet jacket and blue
cap, lying fourth, to her brother.
Each time the horses jumped, he gave a convulsive little leap into
the air himself, screwing his eyes up painfully, and only half
looking at the fences.
"Terribly dangerous!" he muttered. "If one of those fellows fell
off, he must be killed."
"Stuff!" was Gay's rejoinder. "Men who play this game are not so
soft and brittle as you, old boy. There they are again," pointing to
the left as the horses made the bottom turn. They were all on their
legs still, and as the Professor fumbled with the glasses, he
devoutly hoped they would remain so. For a surgeon he was a
remarkably nervous man, though he could operate with skill and
precision, with no thought but for the work in hand. But he could
not look at an accident, or anticipate one, without infinitely more
suffering--mentally--than the actual victim, and Gay wondered what he
would do if, as sometimes happened, half-a-dozen men were all on the
ground together ... which was precisely what happened, and it did not
need the terrified squeal beside her to inform Gay, that under a
_mêlée_ of men and horses, had disappeared a certain scarlet jacket
and blue cap.
If Gay had ever doubted which it was of the two men laying such close
siege to her, she loved, she had no doubt at all when, through her
glasses, she saw a small patch of colour lying perfectly still, and
in the same moment discovered that the Professor had vanished.
If terror had wrung from him that involuntary squeal, all his
professional instincts--and they were the keenest he possessed--were
instantly aroused by a "case," and he precipitated himself from the
stand with a rapidity that left Gay far behind, and never stopped
running till he had reached Chris. No other doctor had yet put in an
appearance, and with quick, clever fingers the Professor made a
cursory examination, and issued his orders rapidly and to the point,
here was the cool, astute surgeon, recognised as such and instantly
obeyed, as he superintended Chris's removal. The list of injuries
when tabulated proved a heavy one. There was no fracture of the
skull, but severe concussion of the brain, a collar bone and three
ribs broken, also a hip put out, but no internal injuries as far as
could be ascertained. Epsom was nearer than town, and the Professor
decided to take Chris straight home in an ambulance, and remain the
night with him, afterwards placing him in charge of a local doctor,
if no complications ensued.
This he presently hurriedly explained to Gay, who, though deathly
white, was quite composed; her spirits rose even at the report, for
though Chris had had few worse "outings" than this one, at least he
was alive.
"No doubt Mrs. Bulteel will look after you," added the Professor, as
he rushed away, and Effie did, knowing well enough that if Chris
Hannen had lost his race, and almost his life that day, he had beyond
all question only established more firmly his claim on Gay's heart.