A NEWMARKET STORY. 19 



is a continual Babel of voices, and a sea of grimacing, smiling, 

 scowling humanity about the Stand and betting-ring. The riot 

 of strife, provoked by greed, robbery, and wrong, rises and falls 

 incessantly, till the sound goes forth, ' They're off !' 



Now the throng presses forward to the barricade — now the 

 din of voices is hushed, and betting-books have ceased to flutter 

 leaves. Throbbing hearts send the blood impetuously up to 

 dizzy brains, and eyes which scan the distant specks through 

 powerful field-glasses are not able to distinguish what they 

 look at. On and on comes the dark patch straight up the long 

 course. No stragglers as yet. Nearer they sweep. One, two, 

 have dropped behind. The sun shines gaily on the brighter- 

 coloured shirts. A great chestnut with a blue jockey leads the 

 troop, but all are well together. Rupert Ellis rides his gray 

 hack, but carries no glasses. His keen sight picks out his own 

 colours in the centre of the band. The chestnut's rider is urg- 

 ing him already. But slowly and surely Satanas creeps up to 

 the leader's heels, though Joe is not using his whip at all. Two 

 more well-backed horses drop behind as they draw nearer to the 

 Stand. Rupert unconsciously grips the reins of his quiet nag, 

 and feels his eyeballs burning with the tension of his gaze. Joe 

 is too deliberate. He is a length behind, and Satanas pulling 

 like mad. The blue jacket flogs the exhausted chestnut with 

 desperate efforts. Like a flash of lightning they all go past, and 

 Rupert for a moment sees the jockey's face turn towards the 

 spot where he stands. Then, as if waiting for a signal, with a 

 sudden loosening of the reins he suffers Satanas to rush in and 

 pass the post by a length. 



Joe Dallas gets quickly out of his cab and opens the door of 

 his lodgings with his private key. Staggering up the stairs like 

 a giddy or suddenly blinded man, he listens at his own bedroom 

 door. Silence — complete silence. Hetakes the key of the room 

 from his pocket, and enters noiselessly. 



Sprawling upon tumbled pillows across a mattress on the 

 floor, with blankets and sheets in wild confusion, lies another 

 Joe Dallas. Another Joe opens bloodshot eyes and stares 

 stupidly at the Joe who comes in, wearing the yellow shirt. 



* What tomfoolery is this, Jess ? Why did you lock me in ? 

 and what do you mean by a-putting on of my clothes ? You 

 think you can play the jockey, maybe. My watch has stopped. . 

 Is it time to rig-out for the race ? Lord love ye, Jess, you've 



