by F. Anstey
CHAPTER XII
A RACE AGAINST TIME
There's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen, If you'd beat him--although he is bald, And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine. On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.
_Stanza written to order by young English friend, but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson._
Ah! with what perfervid affection did Mr Bhosh caress the neck of hisprecious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she hadsustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations!
Thank goodness! He was unable to detect any flaw within or without--theprobability being that the crafty Duchess did not dare to commit such abreach of decorum as to poison a Derby favourite, and thought toaccomplish her fell design by leaving the mare as lost luggage anddestroying the ticket-receipt.
But old Time had already lifted the glass to his lips, and the contentswere rapidly running down, so Mr Bhosh, approaching a railway director,politely requested him to hook a horse-box on to the next Epsom train.
What was his surprise to hear that this could not be done until allDerby trains had first absented themselves! With passionate volubilityhe pleaded that, if such a law of Medes and Persians was to be insistedon, _Milky Way_ would infallibly arrive at Epsom several hours too lateto compete in the Derby race, in which she was already morallyvictorious--until at length the official relented, and agreed to do thejob for valuable consideration in hard cash.
Lackadaisy! after excavating all his pockets, our unhappy hero couldonly fork out wherewithal enough for third-class single ticket forhimself, and he accordingly petitioned that his mare might travel asbaggage in the guard's van.
I am not to say whether the officials at this leading terminus were allin the pay of the Duchess, since I am naturally reluctant to advance soserious a charge against such industrious and talented parties, but itis _nem. con._ that Mr Bhosh's very reasonable request was nilled inhighly offensive cut-and-dried fashion, and he was curtly recommended towalk himself and his horse off the platform.
_Que faire?_ How was it humanly possible for any horse to win the Derbyrace without putting in an appearance? And how was _Milky Way_ to put inher appearance if she was not allowed access to any Epsom train? A lesswilful and persevering individual than Mr Bhosh would have certainlysuccumbed under so much red-tapery, but it only served to arouseBindabun's monkey.
"How far is the distance to Epsom?" he inquired.
"Fourteen miles," he was answered.
"And what o'clock the Derby race?"
"About one P.M."
"And it is now just the middle of the day!" exclaimed Bindabun. "Verywell, since it seems _Milky Way_ is not to ride in the railway, sheshall cover the distance on shank's mare, for I will ride her to Epsomin _propria persona_!"
THE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF CONVEYANCE (Illustration VII)]
So courageous a determination elicited loud cheers from the bystanders,who cordially advised him to put his best legs foremost as he mountedhis mettlesome crack, and set off with broken-necked speed for Epsom.
I must request my indulgent readers to excuse this humble pen fromdepicting the horrors of that wild and desperate ride. Suffice it to saythat the road was chocked full with every description of conveyance, andthat Mr Bhosh was haunted by two terrible apprehensions, viz., that hemight meet with some shocking upset, and that he should arrive the dayafter the fair.
As he urged on his headlong career, he was constantly inquiring of theoccupants of the various vehicles if he was still in time for the Derby,and they invariably hallooed to him that if he desired to witness thespectacle he was to buck himself up.
Mr Bhosh bucked himself up to such good purpose that, long before theclock struck one, his eyes were gladdened by beholding the summit ofEpsom grand stand on the distant hill-tops.
Leaning himself forward, he whispered in the shell-like ear of _MilkyWay_: "Only one more effort, and we shall have preserved both ourbacons!"
But, alas! he had the mortification to perceive that the legs of _MilkyWay_ were already becoming tremulous from incipient grogginess.
* * * * *
And now, beloved reader, let me respectfully beg you to imagine yourselfon the Epsom Derby Course immediately prior to the grand event. What amarvellous human farrago! All classes hobnobbing togetherhiggledy-piggledy; archbishops with acrobats; benchers with bumpkins;counts with candlestickmakers; dukes with druggists; and so on throughthe entire alphabet. Some spectators in carriages; others on _terrafirma_; flags flying; bands blowing; innumerable refreshment tentsrearing their heads proudly into the blue Empyrean; policemen gazingwith smiling countenances on the happy multitudes when not engaged inrunning them in.
Now they are conducting the formality of weighing the horses, to see ifthey are qualified as competitors for the Derby Gold Cup, and eachhorse, as it steps out of the balancing scales and is declared eligible,commences to prance jubilantly upon the emerald green turf.
(_N.B._-The writer of above realistic description has never beenactually present at any Derby Race, but has done it all entirely fromassiduous cramming of sporting fictions. This is surely deserving ofrecognition from a generous public!)
Now follows a period of dismay--for _Milky Way_, the favourite of highand low, is suddenly discovered to be still the dark horse! The onlyperson who exhibits gratification is the Duchess Dickinson, who makesher entrance into the most fashionable betting ring and, accosting aleading welsher, cries in exulting accents: "I will bet a million to amonkey against _Milky Way_!"
Even the welsher himself is appalled by the enormity of such a stake andearnestly counsels the Duchess to substitute a more economical wager,but she scornfully rejects his well-meant advice, and with a tremblinghand he inscribes the bet in his welching book.
No sooner has he done so than the saddling bell breaks forth into ajoyous chime, and the crowd is convulsed by indescribable emotions."Huzza! huzza!" they shout. "Welcome to the missing favourite, and threecheers for _Milky Way_!"
The Duchess had turned as pale as a witch, for, galloping along thecourse, she beholds Mr Bhosh, bereft of his tall hat and covered withperspiration and dust, on the very steed which she fondly hoped had beenmislaid among the left luggage!