The City and Suburban morning broke fine; one of those April mornings fresh and sweet as spring herself. Mr. French, staying with Major Lawson at Badminton House, just outside Epsom, had awakened from a night of dreams, feeling pretty much as a man may be supposed to feel who expects the hangman as an after-breakfast visitor.

He awoke from sleep with the dead certainty of failure upon him. Months and months of anxiety had passed, obstacle after obstacle had been overcome. The last obstacle was now before him—the race. That, he felt, was insurmountable, and for no special reason. Garryowen had arrived safe at Lawson's stables; the horse was in the pink of condition; Andy was fit and well; the favourite had been scratched two days before; several good horses had been scratched; the betting list had altered considerably since we referred to it last, and Wheel of Fortune was now favourite, White Moth second. These new conditions were not unfavourable to the Irish horse; all the same, the sense of coming disaster weighed on French.

Before breakfast he visited the stables with Lawson who had nothing running in the race, and who was therefore free to admire with an unjaundiced eye the excellencies of Garryowen. Andy had been taken over the course the day before, and had studied its peculiarities, receiving sage advice from Lawson and his master, all of which he listened to with an appearance of respect, but which was scarcely of much profit to him, as his keen eye and judgment could give him, unaided, the ins and outs of any racing track better than the oldest user and frequenter of it.

After breakfast Mr. French went out to smoke a cigar and think things over; Lawson seeing the nervousness and agitation of his friend had promised to look after everything and act as second in this duel with Fortune.

The Downs even now showed an animated appearance. A few hours more and the great race-trains would pour their thousands upon thousands to swell the throng. Gipsies and tramps, pickpockets, all sorts of undesirables had camped on the Downs or tramped from London. Cocoanut-shies were going up, costers' barrows arriving, and gingerbeer stalls materialising themselves. Just outside the house Mr. French met Moriarty.

"The horse is all right, Moriarty?" asked French.

"Yes, sorr, right as rain and fresh as paint. You needn't be unaisy, sorr. Barrin' the visitation of Heaven, he'll win."

"If Garryowen wins," said French, "I'll win sixty-five thousand pounds, and if he doesn't, begad, I'm beggared."

"He's nothin' to fear, sorr, but Wheel of Fortune," said Moriarty. "I've been lookin' and listenin' and talkin' ever since I came down, and it's my opinion there's nothin' here to give its heels to Garryowen, and if you'll let me give you a bit of advice, sorr, it's this: Go for a walk, and don't bother your head about the matther. Major Lawson is lookin' afther everythin', and me and Andy will pull everythin' through."

"I know, I know," said French. "You'll do everything you can. Well, there's no use worrying. I'll do what you say."

He took Moriarty's horny hand and shook it. Then turning, he walked off over the Downs.

* * * * * * *

It was twenty minutes or so before the race. A hundred thousand people lined the course and filled the air with the hum of a British crowd on a race day, which is different from the sound emitted by any other crowd on earth.

Mr. French, whose nervous agitation had utterly vanished, was entering the paddock when someone touched his arm. It was Bobby Dashwood.

"Hullo!" said French. "Good! When did you arrive?"

"Last train," said Mr. Dashwood. "I say it's all right. I paid that chap's fine, and lugged him back to The Martens, and he's there now, as peaceable as pie, waiting for the horse to come back."

"Heavens, Dashwood," said French, "inside this hour, I'll be either a rich man or broke to the world, and I feel just as cool as if I hadn't a penny on the race. Funny, that, isn't it?"

"Not a bit," said Bobby. "I always feel that way myself when it comes to the scratch. By Jove, there's Garryowen, and isn't he looking fit!"

"Don't let us go near him," said French. "We've got him here, but I feel if I go near him my bad luck may stick on him. Come into the ring."

He led the way to the ring, followed by Dashwood. Lawson was just leaving the ring. "It's twenty-five to one against Garryowen now," said he. "They've sniffed him, and, begad, I wouldn't wonder if he started ten to one. You can't grumble, French; you're having a run for your money. Sixty-five to one you told me you got on at. I've just put seven hundred on at twenty-five, so that's my opinion of Garryowen. Now stick here and don't bother. I'm going to have a word with your trainer. Leave everything to me and him, and stick here; but don't put any more on, you mustn't pull down your average."

"Right," said French, and Lawson left him.

"I haven't any average to pull down," said Mr. Dashwood. "Haven't a penny on; but I captured twenty pounds yesterday, and here goes."

He approached Sam Collins, a bookmaker beknown to him, and, lo and behold! Garryowen's price was now fifteen to one, and at that he put his twenty pounds on.

"Three hundred will be useful," said Mr. Dashwood. "Gad, I wish I'd been here sooner, and I might have got on at twenty-five to one. However, there's no use in grumbling. Look! there's the numbers going up!"

French watched the numbers going up.

"Sixteen runners," said Dashwood.

"Ay, ay," replied French. "Sixteen, it is."

"Garryowen is Number 7," said Dashwood.

"Look!" said French.

The horses were leaving the paddock. Wheel of Fortune was first out—a bad omen, according to racing men; after Wheel of Fortune came White Moth, Royal George, Satiety, and Garryowen. They were a beautiful picture in the bright April sunlight.

"It's Wheel of Fortune or Garryowen," said Dashwood, who was half-mad with excitement. "French, I'd put my last penny on Garryowen, but the Wheel's a wonder. Ain't they beauties, the pair of them! Make the rest look like dowagers!"

French contemplated his horse as it galloped up the course following Wheel of Fortune. He could not but admire the favourite, but at the moment Garryowen dominated his every thought, and the extraordinary thing was he had almost forgotten money in connection with the race; a mad longing to win for the sake of winning possessed his whole soul. It pleased him Garryowen was so well matched. To beat Wheel of Fortune would be a triumph.

And now that adjustment of prices which always takes place just before starting was evidenced in the price of Garryowen. "Listen!" cried Dashwood. "The price has gone to ten to one. Listen!" The roar of the ring flared up, the horses were now at the starting-post, caracoling and curveting.

French saw Andy's black-and-yellow jacket and the purple-and-white of Lofts on Wheel of Fortune. Would the flag never fall? A false start, another false start, and they were off! The purple jacket of White Moth was to the fore three full lengths; after White Moth came Satiety and Garryowen. Garryowen was going as a cloud shadow goes, sweeping and without effort; with him, and drawing slightly ahead, went Wheel of Fortune.

They were racing along the rise now. Satiety had drawn well to the fore, and now, of a sudden, with kaleidoscopic swiftness and effect, the field had changed, and Satiety was no longer to the fore. White Moth had fallen away, the field was fanning out, Wheel of Fortune and Garryowen were leading, Dragon Fly, a rank outsider, had drawn up to Garryowen, and the whole moving cloud of horses were making for Tattenham Corner, the Cape Horn of Luck, where so many a fortune has been wrecked.

Wheel of Fortune was going superbly, and as they drew on the corner a roar like the roar of a sea surged up and down the course. As they swept round the bend, Garryowen was close on the rails, Dragon Fly had drawn wide and was losing ground, Satiety was moving up as though pushed by some unseen finger, and as they swept down the hill only some six horses were left with a chance.

Down the hill the pace was tremendous, heart-catching, sublime, if speed can have sublimity. Wheel of Fortune, halfway down, shot forward, and again the roar, like the roar of a tormented sea, burst out, and rushed up the course, a wave of sound, and died away and rose again.

"Look! look!" cried Dashwood, with his eyes glued to his glasses. The horses had reached the bottom of the hill and beyond, Satiety had fallen back. The struggle was now between Garryowen and Wheel of Fortune. Wheel of Fortune was a length ahead, and the distance was shortening—shortening—shortening.

"They're running neck and neck," yelled Dashwood. "Look! they're nearly on the judges' box. Look! He'll win! Garryowen for ever!"

"You can't tell," cried French. "You can't tell from here. It's a deceiving course. But I believe he will. Garryowen for ever!"

On the hill, away down the course, from Tattersall's ring—itself a little hell of sound—now rose an outburst, one long, never-ceasing roar. A snow of waving handkerchiefs made the stands look as if beset by a million white butterflies.

"Wheel of Fortune wins! Wheel of Fortune wins!"

Flash! They are past the winning-post, and the race is ended.

"Look! Look!" cried Dashwood.

It was impossible to tell the winner from the ring. Till the number went up the two men stood eyes fixed on the man at the board.

"Seven!" cried French as the number went up, and in the voice of a person who sees what he cannot believe.

"Hurroo!" cried Dashwood. "I told you he would! Garryowen for ever!"

* * * * *

Mr. Giveen and his new-found friend, Mr. Welsh, arrived at Epsom by an early train and took up a position near the ring. Giveen was quite unconscious that his kinsman French had entered Garryowen for the City and Suburban. He knew that the horse had been destined to run in some race, but he knew as little about race-meetings as bazaars, and he never even glanced at the race-card which Mr. Welsh gave him. He was entirely taken up by the crowd, and half addled by the noise around him.

Mr. Welsh had been joined at the station by a very evil and flashy-looking individual who frankly called himself Lazarus, perhaps because it would have been a waste of time and energy to have called himself anything else; and Mr. Welsh, having introduced Mr. Lazarus to Mr. Giveen, the trio proceeded to the course.

Here Mr. Welsh, who was dressed for the occasion in the most amazing check suit that ever left Petticoat-lane, took his stand on a tub provided by Mr. Lazarus, and proceeded to address the crowd in a language that was Greek to Mr. Giveen. But the effect of Mr. Welsh's words was quite understandable to him. Individuals came forward, one after another, talked more Greek to Paddy Welsh, received coloured tickets from Mr. Lazarus, and handed him money, which he deposited in a bag by his side.

As time wore on, and the moment of starting drew near, Mr. Welsh on the tub became less a man than a volcano emitting sound instead of lava, and the more Mr. Welsh shouted, the more individuals were sucked towards him, and the more money poured into the bag of the perspiring Lazarus.

All at once the crowd surged away. A shout filled the air, "They're off!" and Mr. Welsh jumped from his perch.

"Now," said Mr. Welsh, "I'm off wid me friend Lazarus to see the clerk of the course. Here's the bagful of money for you to keep; and, mind, we thrust you. We'll be back in two minits. You stick here, and wait for us."

Next moment, he and the Israelite had vanished, leaving the luckless Giveen, bag in hand, standing by the tub.

"They're off!" These words often include in their meaning bipeds as well as quadrupeds on City and Suburban day.

Giveen, with the bag in his hand, was torn by conflicting emotions. Suppose Paddy Welsh and Mr. Lazarus could not find him again because of the crowd? Then what would he do with the money in the bag? Faith, what else but take it back to London, and as he was off to Ireland next day, what else could he do but take the bag with him?

His mind played with Cupidity and Theft as a puppy plays with its mates. He would not steal the money, but he would stick to it if the others, by any chance, missed him. And he determined to give them every chance of so doing. He would wait a decent time—say, two or three minutes—after the race was over, and then wander back to the station. Besides, there was ten pounds due to him. Paddy had promised him ten pounds anyway.

Engaged in these thoughts, he scarcely heard the shouting around him as the horses were sweeping round Tattenham Corner.

The desire to look at the money in the bag now came on him irresistibly, and, opening the clasp, he peeped in.

Pebbles and pieces of brick met his gaze and confounded him.

What on earth did it mean? Then he guessed. He had been done!

Paddy and Mr. Lazarus had levanted with the money. They must have had two bags, and substituted this one. Withered leaves and desolation! He would never get his ten pounds now. That was why they had bolted. Instead of flinging the accursed bag away and bolting himself, the unfortunate man, who knew nothing of welshers and his own abominable position, slung the bag over his shoulder by its long strap, and, to complete the business, mounted on the tub. From this position he scanned the crowd eagerly, looking for the defaulters.

He did not see them. He saw a wide expanse of ape-like and fatuous faces; every face was adorned by a wide-open mouth, and every mouth was yelling.

"Wheel of Fortune! Wheel of Fortune!"

Ten thousand voices made the sky ring with the shout. Garryowen, leading by a neck, was passing the winning-post, but the crowd, deceived by the course and their own desire, fancied still the favourite was the winner.

Then the numbers went up, and the shouts were not so triumphant.

"Here you are. Ten shillings. I backed Wheel of Fortune for a place two to one!"

"What are you saying?" said Mr. Giveen, tearing his eyes from the course and looking down at a youth with a weak mouth, a bowler hat, and a screaming check suit, who was holding a pink card in his hand, and addressing him.

"I want my money."

"I haven't got your money. I'm lookin' for a big man with a red face and a——"

"Here you are. Fifteen bob. Satiety for a place."

"Here you are. Forty-five half-crowns for Garryowen."

"Go to blazes with you!" shouted Mr. Giveen to the ring of individuals surrounding his tub and demanding their money. "Who are you taking me for?"

"He's got the bag," shouted one voice.

"He was with the other chaps," shouted another.

"Welsher!" cried a third, and at the last cry Mr. Giveen was off his tub and being hustled. The bag was plucked from him and opened.

Then the real business began, and where the police came from it would be impossible to say, but they were only in time to save Mr. Giveen's shirt and trousers. His coat and waistcoat and hat had vanished utterly and like smoke when four stalwart constables surrounded him and began to fight for his life. Several other welshers in the neighbourhood had done their business and got clean away; the crowd was in a nasty temper, for they had lost over the favourite, and the gods, with a certain poetic justice, had offered up Giveen as a dripping roast to the fury of the people.

"Pull him in pieces!"

"Duck him!" (There was not a pond within miles.)

"Jump on him!"

"Down with the police!"

"Welsher!"

"Look!" cried Dashwood.

French, half delirious with delight, French, the winner of a big fortune, to say nothing of the stakes and the glory, was being led from the ring by Mr. Dashwood when they came across a maelstrom of howling humanity, amid which, like rocks, stood forth the helmets of the constables.

"It's a welsher, poor devil!" cried French. "The police have him. Hi! I say—by heavens! it's Giveen!"

He had caught a glimpse for a moment of the face of his cousin. The next he was in amid the throng, helping the police.

"Michael!" yelled the half-naked one. "Lend us a hand, or I'll be torn in bits. Musha! listen to the devils! Help!"

Next moment French was knocked aside. Fourteen constables had charged the crowd like a wedge, and Giveen was surrounded and safe, and being marched off to the lock-up.

"Did ever a man see a thing like that!" cried French. "After winning the race and all to have a disgrace like this fall on me!"

"Come on," said Dashwood. "You can go to the police-station after you have seen the horse. The bounder is all right now. And serve him jolly well right! It's some mistake. He'd never have the brains to try to welsh people. Come on."

Two hours later Mr. French, Major Lawson, and Mr. Dashwood, having celebrated the victory in champagne cup, drove up to the Epsom police-station. The Major made himself known, and obtained permission for Mr. French to interview his relative.

Mr. Giveen was seated in a police cell with a police blanket over his shoulders.

"Well, there you are!" said French. "And a nice disgrace to me and the family! What brought you down here at all? Do you know what you'll get for this? Six months, if you get an hour."

"Oh, glory be to God!" said Giveen. "Sure, I don't know what's been happening to me at all, at all. What have I done that you should all be going on at me like this?"

"What have you done?" cried French. "You've betrayed me to Lewis, you scoundrel! That's what you've done, sorrow mend you! You came sneaking down to Crowsnest to get my address. You're a bad, black-hearted beast, that's what you are, and it's glad I am to think you'll spend the next six months, or maybe the next year, picking oakum or dancing on the treadmill. Come now and tell the whole truth. What have you been doing?"

Urged to the tale, Mr. Giveen told all about Paddy Welsh and Mr. Lazarus, French listening and scarcely able to contain his merriment.

"Paddy Welsh!" said he. "Oh, faith, that makes it worse and worse! Oh, faith, you've done for yourself now, and it's maybe two years you'll get. Now, listen to me, and I'll give you a chance. If you'll promise me to go back to Ireland by the next train, I'll talk to the magistrates to-morrow morning, and I'll tell them you're my relation and that you're a fool. You can tell them what you've told me, and maybe, backed by my word, they'll believe you. Do you understand me?"

"I do."

"Will you go back to Ireland?"

"I will."

"And never interfere in my affairs again?"

"I'll take me oath to that."

"Well, you'll have to stay here all night, for they won't let you out till you've been before the magistrates. There's no use in going on like that; here you'll have to stay, and when you come before the magistrates in the morning——"

"Sure, and I'll pretend to be soft," said Mr. Giveen.

"You needn't pretend at all," said Mr. French.

He left the cell and heard with a deep satisfaction the cell door close upon the prisoner; then he drove back to Badminton House with his companions.

Half an hour later, Mr. Dashwood drew him into the smoking-room, which was deserted.

"I sent that wire to Miss Grimshaw," said Mr. Dashwood, "telling her that Garryowen has won."

"That's right," said French.

"Look here," said Mr. Dashwood, "I'm just going to write to her. We won't be able to get back to The Martens till the day after to-morrow, with this Giveen business on hand, so I'm going to write to her and tell her straight out that—that, well, as a matter of fact, that I want her to marry me. I'm going to tell her that she knows me now as well as ever she'll know me, and that if she doesn't like the business, I'm game, and can take her answer and still be friends. We'll all be friends, whatever happens, she and I and you; but I think it's best to make the position clear as soon as possible, for we can't go on like this. And a letter is the best way to do it."