‘What a pity poor St. Andrew came down at that abominable place!’ said Annabel. ‘I really believe he might have won the race. He was not so far behind Mr. Clarke when he disappeared behind the hill.’
‘He’s only playing with him, I’m afraid,’ said Mr. Hampden kindly. ‘Hamilton and his horse deserve to win, but that fall made too great a difference between horses so evenly matched.’
‘The Cid’s heart’s not in the right place,’ here broke in an admirer of Miss Christabel’s, who had been cut down by the fascinating Bob. ‘You know that, Hampden. I saw him refuse and lose his race, which he had easy in hand, at Casterton. He might baulk at that sidling jump behind the hill yet. It’s a nasty place.’
‘I believe he will too,’ said Fred Churbett, staunch to the Benmohr colours. ‘We ought to see them soon now; they’re a long time coming. Take all the odds you can get, Miss Annabel.’
‘Will _you_ take seven to four, Churbett?’ said Mr. Hampden. ‘I know The Cid’s peculiarities, but I’ll back him out, and my countryman, Bob Clarke, as long as there is a Hereford at Wangarua.’
‘Done!’ said the friendly Fred; ‘and “done” again, Mr. Hampden,’ said Bob’s rival.
Just as the words were finished a great shout of ‘St. Andrew wins, Benmohr for ever!’ arose from the country people as _one horse_ was seen coming down the long, green slope. On the rider could plainly be discovered the blue and golden colours of Charles Hamilton.
‘Baulked, by Jove! the sidling fence was too much for him; thought Bob was sending him along too fast. Deuced uncertain brute; not the real thing; never could stay; nothing like the old Whisker and Camerton strain. Here comes Bargo! By Jove! Hurrah!’
Such comments and condemnations were freely expressed as St. Andrew came sailing along. The concluding cheer, however, was evoked by the apparition of a second horse which followed St. Andrew with a flogging rider, who was evidently making his effort. It immediately became apparent that this was Bargo, whom his rider was ‘setting to with,’ believing that the tremendous pace which St. Andrew had sustained for the last part of the race must now tell upon him. Where, then, was The Cid? Where, indeed? His admirers were dumb; his opponents jubilant. It is the way of the world.