A Good Thing 175 



was all right, though ! I knew he would be ! You can't 

 get the best of Hawke. He did win, didn't he ? Ah ! 

 There's the number ! ' 



Up it goes, and there is a cheer from the crowd. It 

 is No. 1 — Fisherman has won the match. 



Leigh stands with his mouth open, gazing at the 

 board ; Upton compresses his lips, and mutters an 

 imprecation ; Southey slips down from the coach to 

 meet his friend as he rides back to weigh in. 



' Battling good race you rode, old chap. I am glad ! ' 

 Southey says, as he pats the horse's shoulder. ' I 

 thought he was going to do you ! ' 



' So did I,' York replies, blowing a bit — it was a 

 tough finish. ' That mare's come on wonderfully since 

 Kempton. I'm glad the old horse has won, though — good 

 old fellow ! ' and he pats his favourite's neck. ' Hurrah ! ' 

 shouts an enthusiastic little crowd as York re-enters the 

 paddock — for a good many of the spectators had laid 

 odds before the betting veered round. Barnes, forgetting 

 all about the ankle he is supposed to have sjprained, 

 omits the limp he had adopted, and walks up to meet his 

 jockey with a look of deep vexation on his face ; and for 

 his part Hawke looks very sulky. He supposed that 

 they knew what the mare was, and he had backed her 

 for what was a lot of money for him, he said. She over- 

 jumped herself a bit at the drop, it was true, and he lost 

 a couple of lengths or so ; but if she had been what they 

 told him, she'd have won right enough ; and he sullenly 

 pulls off the saddle, and stumps off into the weighing- 

 room. Leigh had by this time changed his opinion as 

 to Hawke having ridden a wonderful good race, and was 

 vowing that he had never seen a race so chucked away. 

 Barnes would have ridden a thousand times better him- 



