FAST AS THE WIND
A St. Leger long to be remembered. Three horses abreast fighting a
terrific battle a furlong from the winning post; in the center of the
course a coal black mare, coming with a beautiful even stride, at a
pace men marveled at. Old hands who had seen Hannah, Marie Stuart,
and Apology win, later Dutch Oven, and La Fleche, Throstle, and the
peerless Scepter, were astounded at Tearaway's speed.
On came Picton Woodridge's black filly, the saffron jacket showing
boldly, Fred Erickson sitting motionless in the saddle. How still he
sat! No one knew he dared not move; had he done so he felt he must
fall off. With desperate efforts he retained his seat; he alone
knew what a great performance Tearaway was putting in, that she was
carrying more than a dead weight, that if anything he hampered instead
of assisting her.
Ripon got his head in front of Harriet and Bronze, and the shouting
was deafening.
"Ripon wins!" yelled Rupert Hansom.
Mrs. Elroy was looking at Tearaway. The black mare was gaining fast,
she would get up and win, she had no doubt about it. She was mortified
because William Rolfe had not told her the real strength of the mare
and her trial. He ought to have done so; they were friends. What was
his reason? Was he jealous of her being with Rupert Hansom? Perhaps he
was, and thought she would tell him about the mare. If this were so,
she did not mind losing her hundred. He had promised to meet her at
the station and journey to town with her; much might happen between
Doncaster and London--possibly he might propose. She intended to urge
him on in every possible way, and she possessed remarkable powers of
fascinating men and was aware of it. These thoughts were mixed up in
her mind as she watched the saffron jacket. The great mass of people
on the rails, and standing on forms behind, at last saw that Tearaway
was dangerous. Ripon held the lead, Bronze next, Harriet and Tearaway
level. The noise was terrific, the thousands of people surged to and
fro, hundreds of them could just see the red cap bobbing up in the
center of the course.
Tearaway settled Harriet's pretensions, and caught Bronze. Fletcher
Denyer turned pale with rage; he recognized that Rolfe had not given
him the strength of Tearaway. It was a shame, after the excellent
mining tips he had given him.
Bronze was beaten. He had lost a large sum, more than he cared to pay;
when he had settled on Monday there would be very little ready money
left, and he must settle or his reputation, such as it was, would be
gone. Rolfe evidently knew all about Tearaway; there was no doubt he
backed the mare to win many thousands of pounds. The commission agent
he worked for said Tearaway was one of the worst in his book, and the
bulk of the money had gone to William Rolfe. Denyer introduced Rolfe
to the man, who would not thank him for this client whose first wagers
were on a winner at thirty-three to one.
Tearaway passed Bronze and drew level with Ripon. Rupert Hansom was
quiet now, watching the struggle on which so much depended. His hopes
of winning were of short duration. Tearaway wrested the lead from him,
passed him, forged ahead, Erickson sitting perfectly still, and won by
a couple of lengths, with the greatest ease. The way the flying filly
left the favorite was wonderful. Ripon might have been standing still.
Banks, his rider, when he realized the situation was amazed. Ripon was
a good horse; what, then, must this filly be?
No matter what wins the St. Leger, there are rousing cheers for the
victor. It was so in this case. They were given with more heartiness
because she was a Yorkshire-bred mare, owned by a popular Yorkshire
squire; there was a real county flavor about it, and the men of the
wolds rejoiced exceedingly. Some of them lost money on Ripon, but that
was a small matter compared with the defeat of the Newmarket champion
by a home-bred 'un; patriotism first is always the case with a
Doncaster crowd.
"Picton, my boy, I congratulate you," said Sir Robert, wringing his
hand. "By gad, I wish the Admiral could have seen this!"
Hector heard the words and turned round quickly; they cut deep into a
not-yet-healed wound.
Picton looked hastily at his brother and guessed what that sudden
movement meant.
"Thank you, Sir Robert," he said. "It is a great victory. I also wish
my father could have seen it," he added in a low voice.
Rita's congratulations came next.
"I am so glad," she said, "so very glad; you own the best mare in
England."
"Go down and lead her in, don't waste time here," said Sir Robert; and
Picton went.
Hector followed him, glad to get out of the box. "I wish the Admiral
could have seen it." Sir Robert's words rang in his ears.
He caught sight of Mrs. Elroy in a box and vowed he would make her pay
to the uttermost for the misery she had caused. There was no mercy in
him at that moment; the recalling of his father's death steeled
his heart, deadened his conscience, made him cruel, hard, almost
murderous. She smiled at him and her glance fanned the flame within
him.
"To-morrow we journey to London, to-morrow," he thought.
Picton Woodridge was recognized as he came with his trainer to lead
Tearaway in. Cheer after cheer was given as he walked beside her
through the living lane.
"How are you, Fred?" he asked.
The jockey did not speak, he gazed straight before him with dull eyes,
like a man in a dream.
"Brant, he's very ill," said Picton.
The trainer looked at the jockey and was alarmed at the expression
on, and color of, his face. There was no spark of life in it and his
complexion was a leaden color.
"Keep up, Fred, keep up! You've done splendidly!" said Brant.
Many people in the crowd noticed the jockey's condition and wondered
at it.
"He's ill, poor chap."
"The race has been too much for him."
"I heard he was bad before they went out."
"He's a good plucked 'un anyhow."
Many such remarks were passed as Tearaway went in.
"Get down," said Brant sharply, trying to rouse him.
Fred looked at him but did not seem to understand.
"Get down, unsaddle, and weigh in," said Brant.
"Yes, of course, I forgot," said Fred in a hollow voice.
Two of the stewards were looking on; they had just congratulated
Picton on his win.
"Your jockey looks ill," one of them said.
"He is; he was very bad, faint, before the race, but he said he'd pull
through, and I could not find a good jockey at the last moment," said
Picton.
"You might have ridden her," said the other steward. "You are about
the weight, and would not have made any difference to the result."
Picton was flattered; this was high praise indeed; the steward was one
of the best judges of racing in the land.
Fred managed to take the saddle off and walked with unsteady steps to
the weighing room. He sat in the chair with a bump. The clerk at the
scales looked at him.
"You're ill, Fred," he said.
The jockey nodded; he would not have been surprised had they told
him he was dying. He got up from the scales, and Banks, the rider
of Ripon, dropped his saddle and caught him as he fell forward in a
faint.
"All right," was called.
Brant came forward; he and Picton carried him outside. A doctor came,
ordered him to be taken to the hospital at once, and thither he was
conveyed, Picton accompanying him.
When Fred came to, he said to Picton, with a faint smile: "Don't stay
here; I'm all right. I did feel bad; I don't know how I stuck on.
She's a wonder; she won the race on her own, and carried a log of wood
on her back. I was quite as useless; I could not help her at all."
"You are sure you do not wish me to stay?"
"Quite," said Fred. "I shall probably be on the course to-morrow."
"What's the matter with him, doctor?" asked Picton, when they were in
the consulting room.
"He's consumptive, there are all the symptoms, and it is weakness
caused through that. He may be able to go out to-morrow as he says; it
is wonderful how they rally--a flash in the pan. He can't live long,
I'm afraid; in any case he ought to give up riding," said the doctor.
"I don't think he'll mind that so much now he's won the St. Leger,"
said Picton, smiling. He liked the doctor, fancied he resembled some
one he knew. "Will you come to Haverton and have a shot on the moor?"
he asked.
"You are very kind, Mr. Woodridge, but perhaps when you hear my name
you may be prejudiced against me."
"A name can make no difference," said Picton. "What is it?"
"Bernard Elroy."
Picton started; he was much surprised.
"I am the brother-in-law of Mrs. Elroy. Now do you understand?"
"Yes," said Picton. "It makes no difference; all that is past."
"But not forgotten," said the doctor.
"No, it is not. You cannot expect it."
"Mr. Woodridge, if I could prove your brother's innocence, I would.
I'd give a great deal to prove it, do anything that would assist in
proving it."
"You believe he is innocent?" asked Picton.
"I do not believe he shot Elroy," said Bernard.
"Then who did shoot him?" asked Picton.
"There is only one person can tell us that."
"And it is?"
"Mrs. Elroy," said Bernard.