  THE horses were saddled, the jockeys mounting, everything in readiness to go out for the parade. Picton was talking anxiously to his trainer and Erickson, last instructions were given, Fred was told to make the most of Tearaway in every part of the race, use her staying powers, and in the last furlong her wonderful sprinting qualities to the utmost. "You feel better now?" asked Picton. "Yes, much better," said Fred; but he was anything but strong. A great cheer broke out from the stands and course. "That's the favorite," said Picton, smiling. "Tearaway will make a hack of him before the winning post is reached," said Fred. "You are the last out. Good luck to you, Fred," said Picton as he rode off. "Well, Brant, what do you think of it?" "What I have always thought, that she will win." "But about Fred?" "He'll be all right; he would not have ridden had he not been confident of himself," said the trainer. It was a beautiful sight, the fifteen horses, parading in the soft September light, the colors of the riders flashing, the thoroughbreds eager for the fray, well knowing what was about to be required of them. There was a dense crowd on the moor, a real Yorkshire crowd, all horse lovers, enthusiasts, judges; on no racecourse in the world is there a more sport-loving crowd than Doncaster on St. Leger day. The stands were packed, so were the rings; bustle and excitement on all sides; the only clear space was the course, a bright green grass track, winding in and out amidst a black surging mass of people. Brack surveyed the scene with wondering eyes. It was all new to him, although he had been on the moor, and seen the great race before, he had never witnessed it from the stand side; the contrast was remarkable. It was also many years since he had been on a racecourse. He was not excited, he viewed the scene calmly; it was not in his nature to bubble over with enthusiasm. As the horses galloped past, and went to the post, he was thinking about Lenise Elroy, what she had said to him at Torquay, and how she Mrs. Elroy watched the purple and white sleeves worn by Banks, the rider of Ripon, the favorite. She wanted him to win. She had, at Rupert Hansom's suggestion, put a hundred pounds on him. Rupert Hansom was the owner of Ripon, a rich man, not particularly popular, living apart from his wife, who had obtained a separation from him on account of his conduct with a well-known opera singer. He admired Mrs. Elroy, would have liked to be intimate with her, but she did not care for him in that way, he was merely a casual acquaintance. Her eyes rested on the saffron jacket and red cap of Picton Woodridge. "What pretty colors!" she exclaimed. "Mine?" Hansom asked. "No; they are very nice. I was looking at that peculiar yellow jacket and red cap." "They're Woodridge's colors—saffron, red cap. I don't think Tearaway has much chance, although I hear they have backed her for a large sum," he said. So that was Tearaway! What a splendid black mare, and how well the colors of the racing jacket contrasted with her dark shining coat. There was not much time for reflection; in a few minutes they were sent on their journey, getting off in an almost unbroken line, a splendid start. Round the bend they swept, a moving mass of brilliant colors. The Major held the lead, stretched out to his full extent, half a dozen lengths in front; he was followed by Dark Donald, Bronze, Harriet, Ripon, The Monk, Field Gun, and Tearaway, the remainder well up. The Major traveled at a great pace; it was to be a fast run race. He was a very fair horse, although not quite equal to staying the St. Leger course; as a matter of fact, he was out on a pace-making mission for Bronze. At the back of the course The Major still led, the others were creeping up. Harriet was now in second place, Ripon, and Bronze, racing together, Tearaway close behind them, level with The Monk. The race became more interesting. All the well backed horses shaped well, and their numerous backers watched every move with interest. Picton worked his way through the crowd and entered his box just before the start. Rita was all excitement; she said Torquay races were very tame after this. "I don't suppose I shall ever have a chance of riding four winners in two days here, or of winning a double," said Picton. Hector caught sight of Mrs. Elroy's glance and smiled; she was not far away. Sir Robert was fidgety. He had done what he considered a rather risky thing, backed Tearaway for several hundreds, standing to win a large sum. He considered it risky because he still doubted if the trial on Haverton Moor was quite correct; it seemed too good to be true that Tearaway had beaten Tristram at only seven pounds difference. He had on the spur of the moment said that Picton had the St. Leger in his pocket, but that was merely a figure of speech, the result of over-enthusiasm. He was now watching the race with keen interest, and thought Tearaway too far back. "Erickson's not making sufficient use of her," he said. "He'll get through presently," said Picton. "I think The Major made the pace rather hot for the first six furlongs." "Perhaps that's it," said Sir Robert. "I hope he'll ride it out, I wish that queer sort of faintness had not come over him." They were entering the straight, when rounding the bend a good deal of bumping took place. The cause of it was the sudden collapse of The Major, who almost stopped dead, and narrowly escaped knocking Bronze down. Bronze in turn collided with Harriet, and the pair interfered with Fred Erickson pulled her wide on the outside to avoid any possibility of a collision because he did not feel equal to it. When he saw the interference at the bend he was glad; it was the best thing he could have done. The consequences of the colliding were not serious; no one was to blame. Fairly in the straight, Harriet took command, followed by Bronze, Ripon, The Monk, and Dark Donald, with Tearaway in the middle of the course. The race grew more and more exciting. Up to this point the winner could not be picked, half a dozen horses had excellent chances. "My fellow will win," said Rupert Hansom to Mrs. Elroy. "I hope so," she answered; but her glance was on the saffron jacket, and the black mare. They looked dangerous. "He's going well," said Sir Robert. "Which is going well?" asked his wife. "The favorite, confound him," he snapped. Brack had a very good view of the horses as they came up the straight. He saw the bright jacket of Tearaway's jockey in the center of the course and to him it appeared the race was little short of Fred Erickson rode a great race. Tearaway was going splendidly; he felt a glow of pride in her, was glad he had such a mount, for he had not yet won a St. Leger, it had long been his ambition to do so. Halfway down the straight something seemed to stab him in the chest; his head swam, for a moment he reeled in the saddle, the reins loosened in his hands, Tearaway slackened speed. Half dazed, by sheer force of will he controlled himself. His eyes were dim, he saw the horses in a mist, they hardly appeared real. He took hold of Tearaway and urged her forward, the gallant mare responded, her astonishing speed began to tell. Blackett saw Fred almost swoon—he had exceptionally powerful glasses—and wondered he did not fall off. "It's all up," he muttered; then, as he looked again, he saw Tearaway coming along as fast as the wind. The black filly stood out by herself, the saffron jacket alone in the center of the course. On the rails Ripon and Harriet were racing hard, with She had seen many races, and did not think Ripon would win. She feared the black filly, who was going so fast, catching the leaders. She wondered Hansom did not see it too. In Picton's box it was all excitement. Fred Erickson was seen to swerve in the saddle, then recover, and send Tearaway along at a terrific pace. "Well done, bravely done, Fred!" exclaimed Sir Robert. "Splendid!" said Rita. "She'll win!" said Picton as he watched her, the perspiration standing in beads on his forehead. "I think she's a chance," said Hector; "but Ripon is forging ahead, and Bronze is not done with." "Look at her now!" said Picton. "By jove, she's wonderful!" said Sir Robert. |
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