"He has, Mr. Langford, a ripping chance. I can't pick out anything to beat him, and he's got such a nice weight, only ten stone; he'll gallop them all to a standstill. And as for fencing, he'll fly Beecher's Brook like a bird."

Neither Rita nor Picton, nor their many friends who saw the race, will ever forget that memorable Grand National. What an awful day it was! The March wind howled and whistled over the course, biting and stinging, cutting the face almost like a lash. Then sleet fell, followed by a whirling snowstorm, which had not abated when the horses went out. The course was heavy, dangerously slippery, but for all that not bad going. It was all against the top weights.

The Rascal lashed out as he felt the stinging half-frozen particles whipping his skin. He put back his ears, lowered his head, and took a lot of persuading before he faced the blast. Most of the horses protested in the same way.

Then the sun gleamed out, the snow ceased, and for a few minutes it was bright and clear.

They were off, twenty of them, and a glorious sight it was. Rita stood with Captain Ben, Sir Robert, and Dick. They had an excellent view of the course; had it been clearer they would have seen the whole race.

When the horses had gone a little over a mile, snow fell again, the sun disappeared in the gloom, the light became bad.

Picton could hardly see the jumps, so blinding was the storm; but The Rascal saw them and despite slipping, and an occasional stumble, cleared them. Once he rapped hard; this roused him and for the remainder of the journey he did not make a mistake.

It was an extraordinary race. Horse after horse came down, until at the last two jumps only three were left in. Another fell, then Mortimer came down at the last obstacle, and The Rascal came in alone, being the only one to finish the course. It was a day of triumph for Picton and his friends. A big stake was landed, a big double, the St. Leger and the Grand National won for the famous saffron colors.

The Rascal and Tearaway were the pets of the Haverton stable. The former won at Manchester and Sandown, Picton riding him. The filly won the Great Metropolitan and the Ascot Gold Cup, following this up with a veritable triumph in the Cesarewitch, carrying nine stone. She then retired to the stud, and was mated with her old opponent Tristram, to the huge delight of Sir Robert, who prophesied the result would be a remarkable equine prodigy. The Rascal ran in the National again and fell, the only time he came down in a long and wonderful career; Picton had a nasty spill and was brought back in the ambulance. This was a shock to Rita; she longed for the time when he would give up steeplechase riding, but she never hinted at it, she knew how passionately fond of it he was. The Rascal won the great 'Chase again the following year, thus setting the seal on his fame by carrying top weight to victory.

By this time Picton and Rita had two sons; this was followed in due course by two girls; so they were supremely happy and all went swimmingly at Haverton. They had troops of friends. Picton became Master of the Haverton Hounds, and his popularity was unbounded. Rita was regarded as a ministering angel when she went abroad, scattering good things around in the depth of winter, and all the poor blessed her name.

Brack retired from active service, but had half a dozen boats and was a popular favorite at Torquay. Picton never forgot him at Christmas, or the farmer on the moor, who had helped Hector to escape.

Carl Hackler often chaffed Brack about the escaped prisoner and said he was not quite sure yet whether he had not smuggled him on board the Sea-mew.

Brack, however, was as close as an oyster, and Carl got no satisfaction in this direction.