The Runaways by Nat Gould (trending books to read .txt) 📕

the paddock the Saint was the great attraction. Everyone knew his two-year-old performances, and his remarkable colour always caused a mild sensation. He was "washy" enough as a two-year-old, but this spring he was almost white with a few "flea-bitten" spots on him.

"Looks as if he'd been powdered with black pepper and salt," was one characteristic remark, which certainly hit the mark.

Despite his colour, there was no mistaking the quality and fitness of the horse. He had been perfectly trained, hard and clean in his coat, no dandified polish on it, but a real glow of health.

"He'd make the Derby horses go if they ran against him now," said a well-known pressman.

"You are right, Harry. I fancy he'd start pretty near favourite. I think I shall back him," was the answer of a brother scribe.

The ladies crowded round "the curiosity," as the Saint was nicknamed, and a horse with a nickname is as popular as a rosy-cheeked schoolboy dubbed "apples." A nickname is a sure sign of something out of the common in man, boy, or horse.

"The curiosity" took the mobbing in good part, it troubled him not at all, although he condescendingly glanced round the ring from time to time, and, as Fred May saddled him, made playful snaps at his coat, and once succeeded in securing his hat.

Ben Sprig was to ride the Saint; a good jockey with a reputation for honesty. He was a miniature man, about thirty-five, capable of riding seven stone if necessary. His face was a study. Ben Sprig seldom smiled outwardly; he seemed to conceal all expressions of joy inside his small frame, and the only signs of pleasure experienced were sundry chuckles that sounded like the cracking of nuts. He spoke jerkily, shooting out his words like darts, and taking time to consider between each one. His complexion was bronze, and his eyes were small and brown. He had beautifully-shaped small hands and feet, of which he was very proud. He was dapper in his dress, and always clean and spruce. His humour was proverbial, and as he always had a solemn countenance it proved the more effective. A man who laughs at his own jokes is like an advertiser who stares at his own advertisements. There was none of the advertising agent about Ben Sprig.

"Where's Ben?" asked May, as the bell rang.

"I'll hunt him up," said Ulick, as he hurried off towards the jockey's room.

Ben Sprig was a thorn in the side of all clerks of the course. They invariably had to hurry him up, and in nine cases out of ten he was always the last to leave the paddock. He had a habit of sneaking his mount up the course when the majority of the spectators thought all the horses were at the post.

"Come along, Ben," said Ulick. "I never saw such a fellow, you are always last."

"Leaving the paddock," said Ben, solemnly.

Ulick laughed as he replied, "Not always in that position at the finish, I grant you."

Ben was walking slowly along, the olive green jacket adopted by Ulick being almost hidden beneath a coat which came down to the heels of his boots.

Ulick was striding along in front; the clerk of the course gesticulating furiously at Ben, who took no notice whatever of him.

"Hurry up," he said, as he rode up to the jockey. "You're always last, I wonder you are not fined every time for being late at the post."

Ben pointed solemnly to the clock, and said—

"They are always behind time when you are clerk of the course."

Ben was quickly in the saddle, and rode the Saint quietly out on to the course, which was cleared of the crowd. He sidled up to the rails, and slipped along past the stands. He was almost rounding the bend before the people recognised the colours.

"I thought the Saint had gone down long ago?" said one.

"That's a trick of Ben Sprig's, he generally goes up last," was the reply.

The noise at Tattersall's was deafening, and although Pinkerton was a slight favourite, the money had poured in for Kit Cat to such an extent that she was about the worst runner in many of the books.

The Saint stood at six to one, and Ulick had succeeded in obtaining a point longer for his money.

There was no delay at the post, Mr. Coventry sending them off in his usual style.

Kit Cat was quickly on her legs, and came along at a great pace, the golden stars on the black jacket of her rider glittering in the sunlight. Mulgar's white jacket also showed prominently, and after a gap came Pinkerton, and the olive green on the Saint.

From the start the pace was fast, and Kit Cat was making the most of her light weight. She had an easy style of going, and looked strong enough to carry a couple of stone more. Her owner had not waited in vain to get in with seven stone, and the money proved the mare could go when required. He was regarded, not without reason, as a very smart man. His name, Conrad Rush, had often figured against large winning accounts in Monday's settlement, and the ring had a wholesale dread of him. He never did anything underhand, but he possessed an amount of patience that fairly wore the handicappers out.

The golden stars leading in a mile race meant mischief, and already backers of Kit Cat were on good terms with themselves. The mare rounded the bend going in grand style, revelling in her light weight, and pulling hard. So far, it was a one-horse race, but creeping up on the rails not far behind were Pinkerton's blue jacket, the Saint, and Mulgar. To these four horses it soon became evident the race belonged; which would win?

Already the murmur of many voices could be heard in the rings. The sound gradually increased until it swelled into a roar, and louder and louder it became as the horses drew nearer.

Kit Cat still held a commanding lead, and it seemed almost impossible she could be caught.

"They don't win there," said Fred May to Ulick, "and the Saint has a rare turn of speed."

"It's a lot of ground to make up," he replied, "but I hope he'll do it. Pinkerton is running well, but Kit Cat has such a light weight she ought to last it out."

"I fancy Conrad Rush has overshot his mark this time. I have never seen the mare cover a mile. She may do it, but I doubt it. Look at her now—by Jove, she's done, I felt pretty sure of it."

Ulick saw the rider on Kit Cat "niggling" at her, and a second or two later he raised his whip as he heard the horses behind drawing nearer.

The bookmakers were jubilant and howled with delight.

Kit Cat responded to the call, but it was a mere flash in the pan.

Pinkerton was the first to tackle her on the outside, and as he drew level she swerved towards him and bored him out. This left an opening on the rails, which looked dangerous to squeeze through. Ben Sprig never flinched when he got a chance, however small he took it. He did so on this occasion. He was watching the two horses in front of him with keen eyes, and no sooner did Kit Cat swerve than he slid the Saint forward with one great effort and secured the lead.

It was a clever bit of jockeyship on the part of the rider, a marvellous run on the part of the horse, and the combined effort drew forth a hearty cheer.

The rider of Pinkerton had not expected this; he fancied the Saint was shut in on the rails, and would have to go round him on the outside. When he saw the olive green jacket on the other side of Kit Cat, it is needless to say he was surprised.

Pinkerton was not beaten, and as the pair cleared Kit Cat a tremendous race home ensued. It was a thrilling moment. Pinkerton had won over this course, and that was in his favour. The Saint had not run on it before. The four-year-old and the three-year-old struggled gamely on, with a difference of twelve pounds between them.

Ulick was excited; he had not seen the Saint in such a tight place before, and he hoped he would get out of it.

The horses were close to the winning post, a few more strides would decide it. They fought out every yard of the ground. Ben Sprig was a great finisher. He graduated in a good school, and he clung to the old tradition that a bit left for a finish is worth a hundred yards at any other part of the race.

His face was set, and his little eyes gleamed. His small hands gripped the reins firmly, his knees pressed the Saint's sides, and he helped the horse all he knew how. The olive jacket and the blue were level, the next few strides would do it; which would win?

A moment of suspense, a second or two of breathless silence, then a mighty shout.

"The Saint! The Saint!"

Ulick echoed the cry.

"The Saint wins!" he shouted.

Ben Sprig's immovable face showed no signs of the triumph within. He knew he had ridden one of his best races, he felt much of the success was due to his horsemanship, and he was pleased with himself. He slid past the judge's box about three parts of a length in front of Pinkerton, with Kit Cat a bad third.

The Saint's performance was acknowledged on all sides to be a great one, and "the curiosity" was mobbed as Ben rode him in amidst cheers. Mr. Lanark was not well known, but the Saint had made the olive green jacket popular.

"You rode a splendid race, Ben," said Ulick. "I think the best you ever rode on him."

Ben Sprig had ridden the Saint throughout his two-year-old career.

"I agree with you," jerked Ben. "I did ride a good race, the saints be praised."

"I expect you felt a bit uneasy when you squeezed through on the rails?" laughed Ulick.

"Not at all; I'm used to squeezing. I've been squeezing all my life to make both ends meet," said Ben.

"Then from all accounts you have squeezed to some purpose," said Ulick, for Ben Sprig was reported to be rich.

"I could lend some of 'em a trifle, I have no doubt," he replied, "but look at the time I have been at it."

They joined Fred May in the paddock, and looked at the Saint walking round.

"He's the rummiest coloured beggar I ever rode or saw," said Ben.

"Bar his colour, what do you think of him?" asked May.

"He's an out-and-out good one, and as game as they make 'em. If it came to a match between him and the Derby winner I would back him, provided I rode him."

"That's a pretty tall order," said Ulick.

"It would come off, you can take my word for it," he replied.

A friend came up to Ulick, and they walked away together. After some conversation as to the merits of the Saint's victory, he said—

"How are you going back to town—by train?"

"Yes," replied Ulick.

"I have to go on to Windsor. Drive with me to Feltham and go to Waterloo from there, unless you will come with me?"

Ulick thanked him, said he would drive to Feltham, but declined to go to Windsor.

After the races they