46 PRETTY POLLY 



It was Paris all over again. 



As then, so now, one glanced at the winning-post 

 and at the two horses as they neared it, and hoped 

 against hope that Pretty Polly might have that momen- 

 tary return of vitality which would land her a victor, 

 even if it were only by the shortest of margins. 



But as it was at Longchamp, so it was at Ascot, and 

 the horse holding his own to the end won by a length 

 amid a silence as of death. 



I have seen many races and many sensational results, 

 but nothing to equal the absolute silence as Bachelor's 

 Button passed the post the winner of the Ascot Gold 

 Cup in record time. 



To freely translate a Latin epigram, it might be said 

 that, although the gods had decreed the success of the 

 victor, the success of Pretty Polly was desired by every 

 man of that great Ascot multitude, layer and backer 

 alike, such a hold had she on every unit of that great 

 army of those who go racing. 



I believe it is said that some people cried, and I am 

 not the least ashamed to own that the tears came into 

 my own eyes as I saw for the second time Pretty Polly's 

 number second in the frame. 



No one cared about the money; one would have 

 gladly given the money twice over rather than have 

 seen her defeated. 



To the reader totally uninterested in racing, or to one 



