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“But he can’t do it. He must be dead,” said Mr. Newby. “There goes one now. The red-jacket ‘s down.”

“I ‘m out,” said Mr. Galloper. “He ‘s up all right.”

“He ‘ll get over,” said the girl. “Oh, I can’t look! Tell me when he ‘s safe.” She buried her face in her hands.

“There he goes. Oh!”

“Oh, is he down!” she panted.

“Jove! No–he ‘s over clear and clean, running like a streak,” said the gentleman, with warm admiration. “He ‘s safe now. Only two more hurdles. It ‘s all clear. That boy is riding him, too.”

The girl sprang to her feet.

“Give me your glasses. It is–it is! He ‘s safe!” she cried. She turned to Newby who stood next to her. “Ask quarter and I ‘ll let you off.”

“He ‘ll never be able to stand the track. It ‘s fetlock-deep.”

But at that moment the horses turned into the track, and the real race began. Newby’s prophecy went to the winds. As was seen, the leaders were riding against each other. They had dropped out of account all the other horses. They had not even seen the brown. The first thing they knew was the shout from the crowd ahead of them, blown down to them hoarsely as the big brown horse wheeled into the stretch behind them. He was ahead of the other horses and was making hotly after the four horses in the lead. He was running now with neck outstretched; but he was running, and he was surely closing up the gap. The blood of generations of four-mile winners was flaming in his veins. It was even possible that he might get a place. The crowd began to be excited. They packed against the fences, straining their necks.

How he was running! One by one he picked them up.

“He ‘s past the fourth horse, and is up with the third!”

The crowd began to shout, to yell, to scream. The countryman, not content with a place, was bent on winning the race. He was gaining, too.

The two leaders, being well separated, were easing up, Hurricane, the bay, in front, the black, the favorite, next, with the third well to the rear. The trainers were down at the fence, screaming and waving their arms.

They saw the danger that the riders had forgot.

“Come on! Come on!” they shouted.

Old Robin was away down the track, waving like mad. Suddenly the rider of the second horse saw his error. The rush of a horse closing up on him caught his ear. He looked around to see a big brown horse with a white blaze in the forehead, that he had not seen since the start, right at his quarter, about to slip between him and the fence. He had just time to draw in to the fence, and for a moment there was danger of the two horses coming down together.

At the sight old Robin gave a cry.

“Look at him! Runnin’ my hoss in de fence! Cut him down! Cut him down!”

But the brown’s rider pulled his horse around, came by on the outside, and drew up to the flank of the first horse. He was gaining so fast that the crowd burst into shouts, some cheering on the leader, some the great brown which had made such a race.

The boxes were a babel. Everyone was on his feet.

“The yellow ‘s gaining!”

“No; the blue ‘s safe.”

“Orange may get it,” said Colonel Ashland. “He ‘s the best horse, and well ridden.”

He was up to the bay’s flank. Whip and spur were going as the leader saw his danger.

Old Robin was like a madman.

“Come on! Come on!” he shouted. “Give him de whip–cut him in two–lift him! Look at him–my hoss! Come on, son! Oh, ef my ol’ master was jest heah!”

A great roar ran along the fences and over the paddock and stands as the two horses shot in together.

“Oh, he has won, he has won!” cried the girl in the big hat, springing up on a chair in ecstasy.