8o 



RACING. 



that those two boys have got more left in them than he quite 

 fancies, he sets his shoulders higher than ever, a convulsive 

 movement agitates his elbows, while from exultant layers rises 

 crescendo a yell of ' The field a hundred ! ' as quickly diminuendo 



into a mutter. ' It's all that d d Fordham's kid. I'll lay three 



to one I name the winner ! ' For the hundredth time the old 

 ruse has succeeded, the two stable lads, thinking they have the 

 great horseman in difficulties, plunge simultaneously into the 

 fantastic ecstasies of a flogging finish which settles their horses 

 in the next dozen strides ; with the semblance of a shake 



*? 



M 



' It's all Fordham's kid ! ' 



Fordham shoots out, and canters home, the easiest of winners 

 by two lengths. No need to look at the numbers. Off speeds 

 the Danebury cohort in mad gallop, with Sir Laudator hard on 

 their track, and arrives at the weighing-room in time to see 

 Fordham, looking as if he had just gone into church, draw the 

 required weight with professional exactness, and to hear the 

 welcome * All right ' from Mr. Manning. A brief congratula- 

 tion in the Birdcage to old John, who gives vent to a prolonged 

 ' Gor your grace,' as the senior partner hints at the probable 

 aggregate of the stable winnings, and then away to slake 



