236 A Morning at Newmarket 



will it be No. 13 ? After five seconds, that seem to be 

 fifteen minutes, the number is put in the frame and 

 hoisted. 



It is ' 13.' Gratitude is beaten. ' Almost a dead 

 heat ; the other iust got up in the last stride,' is the 

 report of the judge, inflexible Ehadamanthus ; and so 

 for Gratitude's owner good-bye to England, home, and 

 beauty. That he should have patted the mare's neck 

 when he sorrowfully met her in the Birdcage after the 

 race says very much for the goodness of his heart. She 

 had done her best for him, and now must pass into other 

 hands, instead of leading the life of ease he had pictured 

 for her — happy summers beneath the pleasant shade of 

 leafy branches in the spacious paddock that would have 

 been her home. There, with her foal by her side, she 

 was destined to live if only that short head had been the 

 other way ; now she may pass into less kindly hands, sink 

 from grade to grade till she cannot win a selling hurdle 

 race for a gambling coper, and so end her days in a night 

 cab. As for himself, a digger's hut and hard fare are 

 his portion, to be accepted with such resignation as is 

 possible. We may imagine the picture that passed 

 before his mind's eye as at nightfall he looked over the 

 shadowy bush once more. Can we doubt that continually 

 in his mental vision he saw Newmarket Heath, thrilled 

 over that desperate finish, and again, watched the frame 

 rise with that fatal ' 13 ' at the top ? 



But the theme was to be a morning at Newmarket, 

 the rehearsal of the performance — the tragedy or comedy, 

 as the case may be — to which a mention of the Eowley 

 Mile has led ; for the real devotee of the sport will take 

 as much delight in these mornings as in the more 

 exciting afternoons. To many visitors, those who arrive 



