RACING 



legs against the ropes, and the horses are coming out, while 

 from the enormous throng rises the murmur of expectation. 

 Here they come, one, two, three — eight of them. Where 's 

 Persimmon and Bradwardine and Earwig ? Leave has been 

 given for them to go straight to the start, says somebody behind 

 us ; they are being saddled at Sherwood's and won't take part 

 in the parade. The preliminary over, the eight take a short 

 cut across to the starting post where Mr. Coventry is waiting. 

 Somebody wants to know why Regret isn't running, and does 

 not seem consoled when it is suggested that the hard ground 

 probably explains his absence. Now the field of eleven has 

 come under the starter's orders and the tense minutes of 

 waiting begin : you feel the pent-up excitement through the 

 comparative silence. It seems an hour — seven or eight 

 minutes it proves — before the roar of " Off ! " heralds the 

 vain rush of the crowd from the starting post across the 

 Downs : it is a wonderful sight that advancing wave of 

 humanity, but every eye is on the race. ^^Tio 's that in front ? 

 Toussaint. Only for a moment : Woodburn has steadied him, 

 and Bay Ronald, Bradwardine, Spook, Earwig, and Teufel 

 draw out from the rest. Persimmon and St. Frusquin to- 

 gether whipping in. Now Gulistan leads ; Bradwardine over- 

 hauls him as they ascend the hill, passes him at the top, 

 followed by St. Frusquin, Bay Ronald, and Teufel : Persimmon 

 behind them, with Toussaint and Tamarind ("neither of those 

 two, Derby horses," mutters a voice at our elbow) bringing 

 up the rear, already out of it. Down the hill they come ; as 

 they near Tattenham Corner, Bradwardine falls behind. Bay 

 Ronald and St. Frusquin draw to the front with Persimmon 

 in waiting. Bay Ronald leads round the Corner into the 

 straight, but falls back leaving St. Frusquin and Persimmon 

 to draw clear at the distance. It is between those two, and 

 as the pair single themselves out the Downs find voice again 

 in a swelling roar. St. Frusquin leads ! St. Frusquin ! St. 

 Frusquin wins ! No ! Persimmon ! Persimmon ! for a 

 hundred yards from home Watts on the Prince's horse 

 2 K 257 



