"I
hope to goodness there won't be any drenching shower. Forest King can
stand ground as hard as a slate, but if there's one thing he's weak in
it's slush!" was Bertie's last conscious thought, as he stretched his
limbs out and fell sound asleep.
CHAPTER III.
THE SOLDIERS' BLUE RIBBON.
"Take the Field bar one." "Two to one on Forest King." "Two to one on
Bay Regent." "Fourteen to seven on Wild Geranium." "Seven to two against
Brother to Fairy." "Three to five on Pas de Charge." "Nineteen to six
on Day Star." "Take the Field bar one," rose above the hoarse tumultuous
roar of the ring on the clear, crisp, sunny morning that was shining on
the Shires on the day of the famous steeple-chase.
The talent had come in great muster from London; the great bookmakers
were there with their stentor lungs and their quiet, quick entry of
thousands; and the din and the turmoil, at the tiptop of their height,
were more like a gathering on the Heath or before the Red House, than
the local throngs that usually mark steeple-chase meetings, even when
they be the Grand Military or the Grand National. There were keen
excitement and heavy stakes on the present event; the betting had never
stood still a second in Town or the Shires; and even the "knowing ones,"
the worshipers of the "flat" alone, the professionals who ran down
gentlemen races and the hypercritics who affirmed that there is not such
a thing as a steeple-chaser to be found on earth (since, to be a
fencer, a water-jumper, and a racer were to attain an equine perfection
impossible on earth, whatever it may be in "happy hunting ground" of
immortality)--even these, one and all of them, came eager to see the
running for the Gilt Vase.
Pages:
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48