Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Have you got the money on?” asked Allison.

  “Yes.”

  “The whole two thousand?”

  “Every single penny of it.”

  “So we stand to win forty thousand pounds, eh?”

  “We do — or else lose everything!”

  “Don’t think of it! How did you keep old Powers out of the way?”

  “He and Miss Powers were awfully keen to come into the paddock,” said Sammy. “But I told him it wouldn’t do. Said I wanted his entrance on the scene to be as dramatic as possible; asked him to wait until the race was over before showing up, and then lead in the winner. He and Miss Powers are sitting in a box right in the middle of the grand stand, and they’re both of ’em half frantic for the race to begin. I’d better go over to ’em now, and try to keep ’em quiet. So long! Good luck, Bill!”

  “So long, Sammy! Good luck!”

  As Sammy Galloway joined the little party in the box, Souffrière’s price began to alter in the betting.

  “Why, they’re only laying fifteen to one against him now!” said Gladys Powers. “Listen! I wonder why that is?”

  “Dunno, I’m sure,” said Sammy, taking the vacant chair between her and her father. “Unless some one in the crowd’s spotted who’s goin’ to ride him.”

  “Why, is the jockey so well known? I thought he was just one of your men.”

  “Oh, he’s fairly well known,” said Sammy. “Listen! They’ve shortened him some more!”

  “Twelve to one, Souffrière! Twelve to one, Souffrière!” barked the bookies.

  “What’s the jockey’s name?” asked Gladys.

  “Bill.”

  “Bill what?”

  “Just Bill. Look! There they come!”

  There was a sudden silence, and everybody craned forward to watch the horses coming out. Seventeen of them, prancing and cavorting, filed out, one by one, on to the course. They missed their blankets, for the March wind nipped them; and as they danced on tiptoe in their eagerness to get their heads down and be off, they presented as fine a spectacle as could be witnessed anywhere. The last to come out was Souffrière — seventeen hands of plunging red deviltry; and as he reared on his hind legs and seesawed through the gate, the crowd began to hum again with conversation.

  But the bookies were still silent. To a man, they were watching Souffrière through field-glasses. Suddenly one of them closed his glasses with a snap and turned toward the rest.

  “It is!” he yelled excitedly. “Tens, Souffrière ! Ten to one, Souffrière!”

  The last-minute plungers, who always form a quite considerable percentage of the betting crowd, took that to be an echo of inside information. There was a rush to get on at ten to one, and in a moment the price had shortened down to eights. The bookies bellowed it out above the ceaseless murmur of the crowd.

  “He’ll be the favorite in a minute at this rate!” said the millionaire, grinning with pleasure that he took no trouble to conceal.

  Souffrière was the biggest and by far the finest-looking of the field. He came on to the course sideways, fighting for his head like a mad devil. He seemed the squealing, dancing, plunging, lashing embodiment of energy. His red coat shone like new satin, and his great muscles played up and down beneath it like springs of tempered steel. He was a picture of a horse. Anyone with half an eye could see that he was trained down to the last touch; and the rider who sat him so perfectly, and coaxed and steadied him, seemed as lithe and well trained as the horse.

  “That man’s face seems strangely familiar!” said Franklin Powers, staring through his field-glasses.

  Gladys Powers had thought the same thing; she too was watching closely through her glasses.

  “Who did you say his jockey was?” she asked Sammy. “Bill who?”

  “Watch, Miss Powers! This’ll be worth watching!”

  “It looked almost like—”

  “Oh, all men look pretty much alike in racing-kit! Watch!”

  Every rider excepting Souffrière’s gave his horse a trial jump over the first fence on the course. But Souffrière was taken straight down to the starting-point. It seemed better, to the man who rode him, to take the first jump blind than to let the horse have his head yet for so much as a second. He kept him by the starting-gate until the other horses came and lined up on either side of him.

  “They’re off!” roared the crowd.

  It is like the thunder of a big wave on rocks, and the growl of the undertow — that sudden exclamation of the waiting crowd. It thrills even the oldest race-goer. Gladys Powers leaned against the rail in front of her and tried to stop her heart from palpitating by pressing it against the wood. The silence of the dead followed, as the horses raced neck and neck for the first jump. They reached it all together in a bunch. Souffrière rose at it as if it were a mountain, shot over it without touching a twig, and landed neatly in his stride on the far side, half a length in front of the rest. Between that jump and the next he continued to gain steadily.

  But the Grand National is a five-mile race, or thereabouts — five miles of the stiffest going in the world. The jumps are prodigious. No ordinary horse could get across them, and none but the stoutest-hearted man dare try to ride him. The pace was a cracker, and Sammy Galloway — gazing through his glasses beside Gladys Powers — grunted and ground his teeth.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Gladys.

  “He’s taking it too fast!” He had reached the open ditch already — a misnamed contraption with a guard-rail in front of it and a thumping big fence on the far side; it had been the death of more good men and horses than all the other risks of steeple-chasing put together. As Galloway spoke, Souffrière’s rider dropped his hands, and the horse swung his great hind legs under him and leaped over it like a cat. He cleared it without touching, and his rider — his head a little to one side — watched his fore feet critically to see how he placed them when he landed.

  “Look at him!” said Sammy. “Ain’t he cool! But what’s he takin’ it so fast for?”

  Souffrière was a full length in the lead now — striding along as though he found the going easy, and eating up the distance between jumps with long, easy strides that told of tremendous strength still in reserve. He had a hundred and forty pounds to carry, — twenty-eight pounds less than the top weight, — and he was making nothing of it. The two horses next behind him rose at the open ditch together, cannoned heavily, and fell — one of them with a broken back. The remainder cleared it; but the accident gave Souffrière a lead of two full lengths. The race had still nearly four miles to go, and Galloway, watching through his field-glasses, could see Souffrière’s rider looking behind him to see where the others were.

  “Take a pull, man! Take a pull!” he grumbled aloud. “There’s simply tons of time’”

  “Didn’t you give him instructions how to ride before the race started?” asked Gladys, who had been reading up horse-racing matters since her father had become an owner.

  “Me? Tell Bill how to ride!? I should say not! He’s out and away the best horseman in England! Watch him!”

  Souffrière, slugging his head against the bit, seemed bent on increasing the lead still further, and his rider seemed quite disposed to let him do it. The great horse was still sweeping along without any apparent effort, and jumping as a cat jumps — carefully. The pace, though, was nothing short of tremendous. It was much too hot to last, and the field was tailing out behind already. As they rounded the turn for home, Souffrière was more than four lengths in the lead. Six other horses were waiting on him, and going strong — one little brown horse, that was running fourth, seeming to go well within himself. They were all six letting Souffrière make the pace for them, and every one of them was clearly to be reckoned with.

  As they galloped up toward the grand-stand, though, Souffrière’s rider seemed to be cracking on the pace even a little faster. Those who watched him narrowly enough through field-glasses could see him speaking to the horse. Gladys was one of thos
e who watched the rider’s face. Suddenly she clutched at Sammy’s sleeve and whispered to him.

  “Tell me, Mr. Galloway, who’s that riding him? It looks from here like — It is! Isn’t it?”

  “Quiet now, Miss Powers!” said Sammy. “Don’t give the game away! Yes — it is! Watch him!”

  As Souffrière galloped past the grand-stand, Sammy Galloway found time to scrutinize Mr. Powers’ face for a second. The millionaire was watching the horse as though his whole fortune depended on his winning. He had no time to study the rider, and no idea as yet who was on the horse’s back; and Sammy heaved a sigh of relief as he turned to watch the race again.

  The horses were starting on their second journey round the course, and there was beginning now to be something different in the gait of Souffrière that was noticeable to a close observer — his stride had lost a little of its elasticity. Carefully nursed, he looked good to win the race yet, especially considering the lead he had; but there were more than two miles of wicked country still ahead of him, and he needed riding.

  Saving the one question of pace, he was being ridden perfectly; no man could have ridden him better. Jump by jump, his rider schooled him over the fiercest course in England as coolly and perfectly as though he were out for a practice gallop; and, so far, Souffrière had not touched a twig. But the pace was a killer.

  A booky voiced the general sentiment. “Ten to one, Souffrière!” he roared. Several people laughed. Nobody ran to bet with him. Then, at the water-jump, Souffrière put a foot wrong as he landed, and stumbled badly.

  “He’s down!” roared the crowd.

  Gladys Powers smothered a scream and clutched at Sammy’s sleeve. He was not down, though. The stumble had cost him a good length of his lead, but he was up and going strong.

  Now two of the other horses were beginning to challenge Souffrière’s lead. Whips were going. Their jockeys moved on them, and the distance between them and Souffrière began to grow gradually less. They gained very little on him between the jumps, for his long, easy strides were in his favor, arid he was almost able to hold his own; but at each jump they lessened his lead, for he had begun to pause before taking off, and he was landing clumsily. Each pause, and each mistake, cost him five yards or more.

  Then there were only three jumps left to take, and a straight run home of less than two furlongs. He might do it yet, but it seemed very doubtful. Sammy Galloway gripped his glasses, and ground his teeth, and swore beneath his breath. Gladys Powers clutched his arm again, and her father stood up in the box — rigid with excitement.

  “Oh, Bill, you idiot!” groaned Galloway. “Steady him, man! Steady! Take a pull, and let ’em pass you! You’ll catch ’em again in the straight! Oh, you idiot!”

  Even as he spoke, the man he apostrophized took up his whip and sent home three good rousing wallops to Souffrière’s ribs. The second horse — the little one that had been running fourth so gamely all the way — was coming up hand over hand.

  “Twenty to one, Souffrière!” roared a booky, and a chorus of other bookies echoed him.

  Then the horses and their riders caught the intoxicating roar from the stands — the roar of an appreciative crowd, that has turned the heads of contestants ever since the dawn of history and has ruined many a fellow’s chances. It was the crucial moment. All of the horses were stretched to their limit.

  “My God!” groaned Galloway. Souffrière’s rider was flogging like a wild man — or seemed to be. It was the one, absolute, and only thing he should not have done! Just behind him — gaining on him fast, and coming up on the inside — was the little brown horse. He and Souffrière charged at the last hurdle side by side, racing shoulder to shoulder for it, with Souffrière’s head only the least bit in front.

  Crack! came his rider’s whip. Souffrière slipped badly at the take-off, and hit the hurdle hard with both hind legs.

  “He’s down!” roared the crowd.

  This time Souffrière was really down — kicking and struggling like a brute possessed. His rider was still on him, clinging with both hands to his neck, and trying to force his weight backward into the saddle again. Souffrière kicked, and struggled, and rose to his feet. Gladys Powers screamed. Powers swore, and smashed his glasses against the rail in front of him. The third horse rose at the jump, cleared it, and missed Souffrière on the far side by about an inch!

  “Now ride!” yelled Galloway. “Ride, man! Ride!”

  The man in front had glanced over his shoulder, and, seeing that he was leading by a safe margin, had pulled up a bit to save his horse. There was more than a furlong still of straight going on good green grass, and the race was still to win.

  “It’s all up!” groaned Galloway; and the millionaire looked toward him and nodded. “Worth it, though!” he said, with a wry smile. “I was never more excited in my life!”

  “Thank heaven, he wasn’t killed!” said Gladys. She was white as a sheet, and trembling.

  “Oh, watch!” said Sammy. “Watch!”

  The crowd was yelling and thundering in the stand. They had reckoned without Souffrière and his rider! The big red devil was game to the last kick, and his last kick was not due yet by a long way. It dawned on the brute suddenly that there were two horses now in front of him. That, and the whip, and his rider’s spurs convinced him that there was still a fight ahead, and he settled down to catch them in real earnest. He passed the second horse like a flash, and gave chase to the little one in front with his eyes shut and his head slugged against the bit — while the crowd roared and yelled until the grand-stand sounded like the thunder of an army.

  “Oh!” yelled Galloway. “Look at that, will you!”

  The whip was out again, and Souffrière’s rider was putting in all he knew. The whip rose and fell like a flail.

  “He’s not floggin’ him! D’you see that? He’s not floggin’ him! Oh, Bill, you’re the cunnin’est old dog that ever—”

  Bill was flogging at his boot. The rider of the first horse heard the whack-whack-whack behind him, and started his own whip going. He flogged his horse, though. The game little fellow changed his feet, and in that second Souffrière caught up with him. Then down came Bill’s whip on Souffrière’s flank, and he spurted, and the two flashed past the winning-post in a thundering, snorting, sweating, wild-eyed streak — so close together that no one outside the judges’ box could tell which was the winner.

  Then the roar of the crowd died down to expectant silence, while everybody watched the number-board. A man started fumbling with the numbers, and Sammy saw them even before they were on the board.

  “Ten — seventeen — six!” he read off.

  Ten was Souffrière!

  “Come on, Mr. Powers!” said Sammy Galloway. “You’re too late to lead him in, but you can see him in the paddock!” He took Miss Powers’ arm, and the millionaire followed them to the paddock at a run. Souffrière was already blanketed again, and was trying hard to eat a stable-hand who was leading him back to his box; and Galloway left them looking at him, while he hurried round to the weighing-room door. There he waited patiently, and presently the Honorable William Allison emerged in jockey-kit — covered with mud and foam, but beaming. “Bill, you idiot, we’ve won twenty-five thousand pounds apiece, and it’s just twenty-five thousand more than you deserve! What, in heaven’s name, possessed you to ride the race like that?”

  “Point is, I won it, Sammy! Had to ride it that way! Haven’t been riding Souffrière in his gallops every day for nothing, you know! I got a line on him right away at the start. If you pull him, he sulks and fights. You’ve got to let him gallop his worst all the way, and whip the steam out of him at the finish! Got that check for ten thousand yet?”

  “Of course not! I can’t ask him yet!”

  “You must, Sammy! I’ve got to have it!”

  “Better leave it till Monday, hadn’t we? Let him settle up like the bookies do; that’ll be soon enough.”

  “No, Sam; I’ve got to have it now! Go and find
him, and make him write it out, while I have a tub and a change. Bring it to me in the dressing-room.”

  “All right, Bill; I suppose you’re running this. I’ll ask him. But, I say, I’d feel awfully mean if he tried to kick me! I’m beginning to like the old boy!”

  It seemed to Mr. Franklin Powers a little bit like sharp business to be asked for his check almost the instant the race was over. He was beginning to wonder, too, where all the social glamour was that had been promised him; nobody had noticed him as yet. However, he was a man of his word, and he produced his check-book and a fountain-pen, and wrote out a check for ten thousand pounds in favor of Sammy Galloway. “Meet you in the box!” said Sammy, turning to hurry away again. “I’m going to bring something in the society line to introduce to you,” he added over his shoulder as an afterthought.

  Twenty minutes later Sammy Galloway came back to them; and with him was the Honorable William Allison — quite immaculately dressed, smiling as usual, and perfectly at ease. He raised his hat to Gladys, but said nothing to her. She watched him in absolute amazement, for the contrast between this dandy and the man in silk who had ridden Souffrière was almost unbelievable. Allison walked straight up to the millionaire, and produced a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

  “Here’s the ten thousand you mentioned, Mr. Powers,” he said, smiling affably.

  Powers seized the piece of paper and examined it. It was his own check for ten thousand that he had given Sammy Galloway!

  “This isn’t yours!” said the millionaire. “You’re not Galloway!”

  “Look on the other side, won’t you? You’ll see that he’s indorsed it over to me!”