PICTON'S WINNING MOUNTS
It was Easter Monday, and a holiday crowd gathered on the slopes of
Petitor racecourse at St. Mary Church. More than usual interest was
shown in the meeting owing to the presence of Picton Woodridge, whose
fame as a gentleman rider was well-known. Dick Langford was popular
and the success of the pink jacket eagerly anticipated.
Petitor is not an ideal course; it is on the slope of a hill, and a
queer country to get over, but some interesting sport is seen and the
local people take a pride in it; as a golf links it is admirable.
Picton had not seen the course before, at least only from the road,
and as he looked at it he smiled.
"I may lose my way," he said to Rita; "go the wrong course."
"You will find it easy enough, and you are not likely to make
mistakes. Look," and she pointed out the track to him, and the various
obstacles.
There were bookmakers there--where are they not when races are on, no
matter how small the fields, or the crowd?
Picton wore the pink jacket, ready to ride Pitcher in the Maiden
Hurdle Race, the opening event. There were only three runners, and yet
the books accepted six to four on Dick's horse; there was a strong run
on Frisco; and Fraud was nibbled at.
"Come along," said Dick; "time to mount."
"Good luck!" said Rita with a smile. "You'll find Pitcher easy to
ride. I've been on him several times."
"He'll find me rather a different burden," said Picton.
The three runners came out, and Picton received a hearty welcome,
which he acknowledged.
"Sits his horse well," said one.
"A good rider, anybody can see that."
"Here, I'll take seven to four and it's picking up money!" shouted a
bookmaker; and so thought the backers as they hurried up with their
money, and Pitcher quickly became a two to one on chance.
The distance was two miles. Picton indulged Frisco with the lead until
half a mile from home, when he sent Pitcher forward, had a slight
tussle with Frisco, then forged ahead and landed the odds by ten
lengths amidst great cheering.
"Win number one," said Dick triumphantly; "when the meeting is over
they'll bar you from riding here again."
Rita was delighted, her face all smiles; she was proud of the
good-looking man who had carried her brother's colors to victory.
Picton, as he walked about with Rita, Dick, Captain Ben and a host of
friends, was the cynosure of all eyes; but he was accustomed to being
stared at.
"Now comes the tug-of-war," said Dick. "There's The Rascal. See how
he's lashing out, scattering the crowd. I believe he's in a nasty
temper, confound him."
There were five runners in the Steeplechase, and although The Rascal
had Picton up, the favorite was Anstey, who had Hordern in the saddle.
The Tor, Moorland, and Stream, were the other runners, but wagering
was confined to the favorite and The Rascal.
Picton walked up to his mount; The Rascal switched round, despite
Brent's efforts, and refused to be mounted. His rider watched him with
an amused smile; Dick and his sister looked anxious, while a crowd
gathered round at a respectful distance.
Picton bided his time, then, when The Rascal had his attention
attracted by Brent, slipped up to him, took the reins and swung
into the saddle, and before the astonished horse recovered from his
surprise he had him well under control. The spectators cheered; it was
a clever piece of work, deserving of recognition. Once mounted, The
Rascal seemed tractable enough; but Picton knew the horse was not in
the best temper, and required humoring.
"You've not got a very nice mount," said Hordern as they rode
together.
"I'm told he's queer-tempered," said Picton; and as he looked at
Anstey he thought: "Your mount will take a bit of beating."
They were soon on their journey. At first The Rascal made a deliberate
attempt to bolt; he discovered he had a rider who refused to put up
with his inclinations in this direction. Finding bolting stopped, he
tried to swerve at the first fence; this object was also frustrated
and he received a few stinging cuts from the whip, wielded by a strong
arm. These vagaries allowed Anstey and the others to forge ahead, and
The Rascal was in the rear.
Dick looked glum, but Brent said: "There's plenty of time. He's a rare
turn of speed--and a grand rider up."
At the end of the first mile The Rascal was still last. He began to
improve his position; quickly passed Stream, and Moorland, then the
Tor; but Anstey was a dozen lengths ahead, fencing well. Two more
obstacles then the run home. Picton rode The Rascal hard to find if he
would respond to his call. Whatever else he was, the horse was game,
he did not flinch, and Picton was surprised how easily he went ahead.
Anstey blundered at the next fence, Hordern making a fine recovery;
this cost the favorite several lengths. At the last fence The Rascal
was only three or four lengths behind. Anstey cleared it well, The
Rascal struck it, stumbled, threw Picton on his neck, struggled up
again; and Picton was back in the saddle and riding hard before the
crowd realized what had happened. Then a great cheer broke out, for a
splendid bit of jockeyship.
"Not one man in a hundred could have done that," said Brent
enthusiastically.
Hordern thought he had the race won. The Rascal on his knees, with
Picton on his neck, was good enough for him. He took a pull at Anstey;
he intended winning the double, and did not wish to press him too
hard. It was a blunder; he found it out when he heard the cheering and
cries of, "Well done, Picton!" "Rascal's catching him!" The stumble
seemed to put new life into The Rascal, for once again he showed what
a rare turn of speed he possessed.
Picton rode his best.
"Rita expects me to win--I will," he thought; and something told The
Rascal it would be bad for him if he failed to do his best.
Two hundred yards from the winning post Anstey led, but it had taken
Hordern a few moments to get him going again when he realized the
situation. It was dangerous to play these games with Picton. The
Rascal came along, moving splendidly; he gained on Anstey, drew level,
held him, then got his head in front. Hordern rode well, but he
had met his match. The Rascal drew ahead and won by a length amidst
tremendous cheering--Picton Woodridge was the hero of the day. Rita
was proud of him and told him so at Torwood the same night. The Rascal
had been backed to win the double with every man who had a book on the
races, so next day the excitement rose to fever heat when the Torbay
Steeplechase came on for decision.
The Rascal was in the best of tempers, he actually allowed Picton to
stroke his face, pat his neck, and pay him sundry attentions; Rita
gave him lumps of sugar, and said he was the dearest and best of
Rascals.
"You will win the double," she said to Picton. "I am sure of it."
"And I'll try to win a far richer prize before long," he said, looking
at her in a way that caused the red blood to mount to her cheeks.
Anstey ran again, but the main opposition was expected to come from
Sandy, a Newton Abbot horse. Dick's horse had to give him a stone,
which was a tall order, but Brent said he could do it, unless Sandy
had improved out of all knowledge.
"I'd take The Rascal to the front this time," said Brent to Picton;
"he's in a good temper and when that is the case he likes to make the
pace, and he jumps freer."
"If he'll do it, I'll let him," said Picton. "Will he stay there?
Remember he's giving lumps of weight away."
"He can do it," was the confident reply.
Six runners went out, a field above the average at Petitor.
Most people thought some of the runners would have been better out
of it, they would only be in the way, a danger to the others at the
fences; a blunderer is often a veritable death trap.
It astonished Leek, who was on Sandy, to see Picton take The Rascal to
the front. He smiled as he thought, "He's making a mistake this time."
Evidently the others thought the same, for they patiently waited for
the leader to come back to them.
Arnold Brent smiled.
"I gave him good advice. They're doing exactly what I thought they
would, waiting. Let 'em wait."
The distance was two miles and a half. The Rascal held a big lead at
the end of a mile and a half. Leek on Sandy thought it was about time
he came back to him, but The Rascal showed no sign of this; on the
contrary, he gained ground. To go after him was the best thing and
Leek tried. Much to his astonishment, he discovered the pace was
much faster than he thought; Sandy made very little headway. At first
Picton's policy of making the running was considered a mistaken one;
this opinion changed as the race progressed; and when they saw Leek
hard at work on Sandy in second place and making hardly any headway,
The Rascal's numerous backers were jubilant. The cheering commenced,
it became deafening as Picton drew near to the winning post. It was an
extraordinary race. The Rascal, the top weight, made all the running
and won by twenty lengths; more than that, he was not in the least
distressed.
Picton was congratulated on all sides. Turning to Dick and Rita he
said: "He's one of the best horses I have ever ridden over fences;
there's a National in him."
Dick shook his head.
"You're too enthusiastic. Wait until you've cooled down," he said.
"I shall not alter my opinion," said Picton. "Where's Planet?"
"Over there," said Dick, and they walked across.
The next race was the Marychurch Hurdle Plate, and Picton rode Planet.
The race needs little description; there were three runners, and
Dick's horse won comfortably.
At Torwood that evening there were great rejoicings; but as Picton
wished to sleep on the _Sea-mew_ he and Ben were driven to Torquay.
* * * * *
Before he left, Picton said to Rita: "Next time I am here I have a
very important question to ask you."
"Have you?" she said. "I wonder what it is."
"Cannot you guess?"
"I'll try," she answered, smiling happily.
"It's too important to put in a hurry," laughed Picton, "and I haven't
the courage to do it now."
"Not after four victories," she answered, laughing.
He shook his head, as he got up beside her brother in the trap.
"If you won't sell The Rascal, send him to Haverton," said Picton as
they bade Dick good-night.
"All right, I will, and you can do what you like with him," said Dick
cheerily.
"Brack's not here; that's strange. We shall have to get some one
else," said Ben.
They hired a younger man. He happened to be the boatmen's bookie.
"Where's Brack?" asked Ben.
"He backed the double with me for half a sov.," said the man. "He's
about broke me, sir, but I don't begrudge it him; he's a real good
sort. I expect he's celebrating it in town."
Brack was not celebrating it; he was biding his time, and opportunity.