"Give way, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"Be damned if I do!" roars the Captain, and in go his spurs.
"Pull over, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"No, b'gad! Pull over yourself," roars the Captain. "Give way,
Carnaby--I have you by a head!"
An exultant yell from Slingsby,--a savage shout from Sir Mortimer--a
sudden, crunching thud, and the gallant sorrel is lying a twisted,
kicking heap, with Captain Slingsby pinned beneath.
"What, Beverley!" he cries, coming weakly to his elbow, "well ridden,
b'gad! After him! The 'Rascal' 's done for, poor devil! So am I,
--it's you or Carnaby now--ride, Beverley, ride!" And so, as Barnabas
flashes past and over him, Captain Slingsby of the Guards sinks back,
and lies very white and still.
A stake-fence, a hedge, a ditch, and beyond that a clear stretch to
the winning-post.
At the fence, Carnaby sees "The Terror's" black head some six yards
behind; at the hedge, Barnabas has lessened the six to three; and at
the ditch once again the great, black horse gallops half a length
behind the powerful gray. And now, louder and louder, shouts come
down the wind!
"The gray! It's Carnaby's gray! Carnaby's 'Clasher' wins! 'Clasher'!
'Clasher'!"
But, slowly and by degrees, the cries sink to a murmur, to a buzzing
drone. For, what great, black horse is this which, despite Carnaby's
flailing whip and cruel, rowelling spur, is slowly, surely creeping
up with the laboring gray? Who is this, a wild, bare-headed figure,
grim and bloody, stained with mud, rent and torn, upon whose miry
coat yet hangs a crushed and fading rose?
Down the stretch they race, the black and the gray, panting, sobbing,
spattered with foam, nearer and nearer, while the crowd rocks and
sways about the great pavilion, and buzzes with surprise and
uncertainty.
Then all at once, above this sound, a single voice is heard, a
mighty voice, a roaring bellow, such, surely, as only a mariner
could possess.
"It's Mr. Beverley, sir!" roars the voice. "Beverley!
Beverley--hurrah!"
Little by little the crowd takes up the cry until the air rings with
it, for now the great, black horse gallops half a length ahead of
the sobbing gray, and increases his lead with every stride, by
inches--by feet! On and on until his bridle is caught and held, and
he is brought to a stand. Then, looking round, Barnabas sees the
Marquis rein up beside him, breathless he is still, and splashed
with mud and foam, but smiling and debonair as he reaches out his
hand.
"Congratulations, Beverley!" he pants. "Grand race!--I caught
Carnaby--at the post. Now, if it hadn't been for--my cravat--" But
here the numbness comes upon Barnabas again, and, as one in a dream,
he is aware that his horse is being led through the crowd--that he
is bowing to some one in the gaudy pavilion, a handsome, tall, and
chubby gentleman remarkable for waistcoat and whiskers.