NEWMARKET. 87 



When Paul Pry feels the hill he drops into his stride 

 again and tackles the ascent like a lion. ' Archer has not 

 moved his legs yet,' remarks Sir Laudator, who knows well every 

 phase of that jockey's riding ; but if Archer has not moved 

 his legs, his arms are certainly at work, and Cannon is sitting 

 so still, and looks so happy on Osmunda, who has now a 

 clear lead of two lengths, that the vociferous declaration of 

 ' Osmunda beats anything ! ' * Osrnunda wins for a hundred,' 

 sounds like prophecy after knowledge. Fordham is riding in 

 grim earnest, although his wide berth makes his chance look 

 better than it really is. Ambrosia, though beaten, is struggling 

 gamely on under Webb and the fatal 'seven extra.' 



Why, then, if the race is over, as surely it must be, does 

 Cannon suddenly, and within a few lengths of the post, catch 

 up his whip, and sit down to a finish which for polished ele- 

 gance, combined with determined strength, few horsemen have 

 ever equalled ? 



The reason is apparent enough, for with a whirlwind rush 

 in which legs, arms, whip, horse, and man seem strangely, madly 

 mingled, comes Archer on Paul Pry, gaining, gaining, gaining 

 on his adversary, till, if only it were not too late, if only the 

 post were ten, five, two yards further up the hill, that desperate 

 swoop must snatch the race out of the fire. Is it so certain 

 that it is too late ? Locked together the two horses flash past 

 the judge, their jockeys simultaneously drop their hands, and 

 half turning in the saddles stare hard into each other's eyes. 



Amidst the babel of voices the opinion appears to pre- 

 vail that Cannon held his own to the end, and just got home 

 by a head, though many of the old hands, remembering the 

 curious angle from which the Stand spectators see the end of 

 the Rowley mile contests, quickly take odds that the head is 

 the other way. 



Then the numbers clatter up on the swinging shutter. 

 The mystery is solved, and a roar of ' No. 3 ! Archer ! Paul 

 Pry ! Archer ! ' rends the heavens. 



Cheer follows on cheer, for stable and owner are alike 



