The Runaways, Nat Gould [e reader comics .TXT] 📗

he won the Derby yesterday."

Vulture was favourite, then Coralie and Avenger, and the Saint figured at eight to one.

"It is a real good price," said the Squire. "I must have a hundred on," and when he had booked that he longed for more, hesitated a moment or two, and then doubled it.

Irene caught the fever and made Warren put a "pony" on for her.

Ulick had a small amount going, and Warren had plunged.

Cautious Fred May departed from his usual custom of having "a tenner on" and invested fifty, and had done the same for Ben Sprig, who was not supposed to indulge in such iniquitous practices, for fear of the far-reaching arm of the stewards of the Jockey Club. Ben was a cautious man, and could conscientiously say he had never made a wager in his life—it was always done for him.

Great was the excitement as the horses went on to the course. Vulture, wearing the stars and stripes of his American owner, was first out, his jockey sitting crouched on his withers—an ugly sight, but often effective. Then came the handsome Coralie, in purple and scarlet, followed by Avenger's yellow and red cap, with Decoy Duck and Mermaid close behind.

"There's only five of 'em," said one spectator. "Where's the other? What is it?"

"The Saint, of course; Ben Sprig's up, he's always last out."

The Saint cantered slowly down as the others galloped past, and Ben, whipping him round, followed in the rear before half the onlookers were aware the colt had come out of the paddock.

Away they went to the famous Derby starting-post. Here Vulture showed his scant respect for decorum by lashing out all round, and in a final flourish tried to dash through the tapes, but did not succeed.

After a quarter of an hour wasted by these vagaries on the part of the favourite, the half-dozen started on their journey.

Coralie dashed off with the lead, followed by Vulture and Avenger, with the other three close up. It was evident it was to be a race from start to finish between the lot. They disappeared from view, and as they came in sight again, the mare still led, and the horses ran wide. The half-dozen were all on terms with each other. Tattenham Corner was reached and the crowd on the new stand cheered wildly as they swept past. It was here that Ben Sprig always looked out for a chance of gaining a few lengths. He wanted them more than ever on this occasion, and meant getting them if possible. He hugged the rails, and kept the Saint well in hand. He lost no ground but he gained none, as they were all adopting similar tactics, and none of the horses ran wide. The half-dozen seemed dangerously heaped together as they rounded the bend, and the crowd on that part of the course anticipated a spill, but happily it did not occur. Coralie led down the hill, the purple and gold glittering and shining royally in the sunlight.

The party in the Squire's box were unusually excited, which was not to be wondered at. Fred May was invited to join them, and he was more anxious than he had ever been before over the result of a race.

He had said he "feared nothing," with the Saint, and meant it. If he had a dread of one, it was Vulture, for he knew him to be a great horse, despite his temper.

"They keep their places," said the Squire, "but I fancy the Saint is drawing up a trifle."

Warren Courtly was very pale, and his hand shook as he held his glasses. Irene glanced at him, and thought—

"Much depends on this race, or he would not be like that." She turned to Ulick, who stood at her side, and said, "You take it coolly, are you confident of winning?"

"Yes, I think he will win; I know Ben is riding a splendid race, and saving him for the finish up the rise. That is where it tells."

"I do hope he will win, Ulick," she said.

He looked into her eyes and read more than he dared hope for.

Coralie had run well, but now they were racing in deadly earnest.

Vulture wrested the lead from her, and his giant stride told its tale. He shot out like a greyhound, and a great shout greeted the favourite's move. Avenger was close on his heels, and Ben was gradually creeping up with the Saint.

They were in the hollow now, in full view of the crowded stands, and the battle was watched with the greatest interest.

Not more than five lengths between the six horses—a sight seldom seen in such a race. Decoy Duck and Mermaid were in the rear.

"I am afraid he will hardly do it," said the Squire, "but what a race it is; there will be no disgrace in being beaten."

Warren Courtly bit his lip and looked desperate. Would the Saint get up and win? It seemed impossible; and yet the trainer and Ulick looked confident, so there must be a chance. The victory of Ulick's horse meant much to him, of his defeat he dare not think.

Seething with excitement, the vast crowd surged wildly, and roar after roar proclaimed the desperate nature of the struggle.

Ben Sprig knew the time had come when he must ask the Saint to go one better than he had ever done before. He knew what a good colt he was, he never doubted his courage, but in front of him was Vulture, a more than ordinary Derby winner, Avenger, the Newmarket crack, and the handsome Coralie. He knew he had the Ascot Cup winner at his mercy, he fancied Avenger would have to play second fiddle to the Saint, but what about Vulture? Would he be able to catch him, and, if he did, beat him? For the first time since he had ridden the Saint he doubted. Vulture was three lengths ahead, and striding along without a falter. It seemed almost impossible to catch him, but Ben knew the impossible often became the possible with a good horse. Win he must; the Saint should not lower his colours; the olive green should never strike to the stars and stripes, and he, Ben Sprig, the exponent of the old school of riding, would not succumb to the efforts of that crouching little Yankee in front of him. Ben felt the blood tingle in his veins, and his heart beat fast.

The Saint felt his grip, and knew it meant mischief. The colt was full of fire, he never had flinched, and he never would.

Who that saw it will ever forget that memorable moment on a memorable day? Who that heard them will forget the ringing cheers, the shouts of victory? Who forget the sight of that flash of olive green, which seemed to shoot forward with lightning speed? Ben Sprig fancied he was being hurled through space; even he had never expected this of the Saint.

Ulick's colt passed Coralie like a flash, drew level with Avenger, beat him, and ran up to the Vulture's quarters before people had time to grasp the wonderful feat.

Fred May shouted for joy; he forgot he was a trainer, and therefore expected to regard everything as a matter of course. Ulick shouted, the Squire waved his hat, Warren Courtly sat down, the strain was too great, and Irene felt a peculiar swimming sensation in her head.

Vulture's jockey was not caught napping—Americans seldom are—and he rode his best, but he had met his match. The grim determination of the elder man was not to be denied. Ben Sprig felt his honour was at stake, he must "beat this kid." The two magnificent thoroughbreds struggled desperately, they fought for victory as only "blue bloods" can, and they knew what it all meant as well as the riders. There is no sight in the world so thrilling as the final struggle of two gallant racehorses; it is the highest form of sport, the most soul-stirring scene a man can behold; he becomes part and parcel of the battle going on before his eyes.

Vulture and the Saint were level, the stars and stripes and the olive green were locked together. Only for a second or two it lasted, and then Ulick's colt gained the vantage, and "Mr. Lanark's" champion won the Coronation Cup by a short head, after one of the grandest struggles ever witnessed on any course.

CHAPTER XVII. THE SQUIRE OVERHEARS.

The Saint's wonderful victory was the chief topic of conversation for the remainder of the afternoon, and it was discussed all over the course. It was acknowledged to have surpassed the Derby victory of Sandstone, and the merits of the pair were a fruitful source of conversation. Perhaps Warren Courtly had as much reason to rejoice as anyone over the Saint's win, for he had landed a large stake. He left the box and went into the ring, where he met several acquaintances, who congratulated him.

Felix Hoffman stood alone in the paddock, his face gloomy and desperate. He had been hard hit again, his bad luck stuck to him, and he had lost the hundred pounds he received from Irene. He had plunged on Vulture and lost, and cursed "the curiosity" for beating him.

The Squire and his companions went down to the paddock to see the winner, and congratulate Ben Sprig.

Warren was not with them, but he followed later on.

Ulick and Irene returned to the box, as she was anxious to sit down and rest after the excitement of the race.

The Squire stood talking with the trainer and Ben Sprig, and Warren Courtly was coming towards them when he encountered Felix Hoffman.

He tried to avoid him, but Felix was in a desperate plight, and meant to obtain assistance somehow.

"Had any luck?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Warren.

"I'm dead broke; lend me a tenner to try and get a bit back."

"Not a farthing," replied Warren, who moved on, but stopped when he found Felix Hoffman following him, and said, angrily—

"Go away, I will have nothing to do with you."

"You must help me; I have done a lot of dirty work for you."

Warren was losing his temper, and his eyes had an angry gleam in them.

"If you pester me I shall give you in charge; go away."

Still Felix held his ground, and said—

"I only ask for a trifle; it will pay you to give it me."

"Get out of my way or I will knock you down," was the reply.

The Squire, walking across the paddock talking to Ben Sprig, was so engrossed he failed to notice them.

"Knock me down, will you?" said Felix. "I'd like to see you do it. If you don't do as I ask, I'll go straight to your wife and tell her all about your dealings with Mrs. Warren. She's here; I saw her in the box with you."

Warren raised his hand and in another moment would have struck him, but the Squire heard the words, and held his arm back in time to prevent the blow.

"Who is this fellow?" asked the Squire.

"Felix Hoffman is my name, at your service."

"Do you know him?" he said to Warren.

"Oh, yes; he knows me very well," answered Felix.

"I did not address you," replied the Squire; and repeated his question.

Warren nodded as he said, "Unfortunately I do; he is a regular scoundrel."

"I am not as bad as you," was Felix's retort. "I haven't got