1 8 TALES OF THE TURF AND THE CHASE. 



Joe watched them as a cat watches mice, with well-feigned in- 

 attention. 



' Zounds ! Joe has jockeyed us after all. Drunk as a lord at 

 three o'clock, and riding the great race ten hours after. Do you 

 think he shammed drunk, Smith ?' 



The two worthies watch the manoeuvres of their quondam 

 friend from behind a sheltering booth, while he in his place, 

 between half-closed eyelids, watches them. When Rupert Ellis 

 returns with a liqueur-glass of brandy they can hear him say, 



' Against my rules, Dallas.' 



They can see how Joe's arm tosses the dram down his throat 

 with a jerk. They watch him get out of the, cab in rather a 

 feeble way, and walk beside his companion with a slow and 

 lingering step. Then they see him no more till he is on the 

 favourite's back. The trainer, who gives Joe a leg-up on to the 

 back of the restless, wild-eyed, raw-boned fiend, well named 

 Satanas, remarks upon the jockey's demand to shorten the 

 stirrups. 



' Why, Joe, it's your usual length of leg.' 



' Would you have me risk the race for the sake of an inch of 

 leather ? Don't I know what suits me best ? S'pose my legs 

 have shrunk up since the last time you mounted me. That's 

 better. Let go, the brute will bite you.' 



A preliminary canter calms the excited animal sufficiently for 

 his master to approach and give the jockey his last instructions. 



' All serene now, sir. I'm fit as a fiddler. Win the race ? 

 Of course we'll win, if I break my neck and go to kingdom 

 come for it.' 



The master lays his hand upon the saddle while he hands 

 Joe a new whip. 



' Remember all I told you yesterday, Joe.' ■ 



The jockey passes his hand over his eyes for a moment. 



' You means the gal, sir. Ay, ay, the stakes is high this 

 time. I ain't ever ridden for a woman before. She's a clipper 

 to look at, with plenty of breed. Them's the sort for a gentle- 

 man. Now I'm off.' 



The great brown horse, answering to its rider's will, shoots 

 down the Heath to the starting-post ; and Rupert Ellis, watching 

 the stride of the animal on which all his hopes are founded, 

 forgets how strangely hoarse and unnatural Joe Dallas's voice 

 had sounded. The hubbub of a perpetual conflict goes on un- 

 checked through all the preliminaries of the great race. There 



