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THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 
mile gallops I had given her at Newmarket, 
while, on the other hand, I had been led to 
understand that there was a big “ if ” about 
the stamina of many other horses in the field. 
Bu^ even so, the public thought but little of 
my marc’s chance, and for the asking such 
forlorn odds as a hundred to one against, and 
more, could have been had, and would have 
been willingly laid to lose any sum within 
reason. 
As the horses left the paddock I remember 
remarking that they were a decidedly good- 
looking lot. “ Mountain Apple/’ I thought to 
myself, “ look > particularly well. Llangwym, 
with Maher up, is a nice-looking horse, too ; 
but rumour says that staying is not his jorte. 
The beautifully-bred Vamose, the hope of 
Kingsclere, on paper should be good enough 
to win anything, for is he not the son of the 
great Ormonde and Vampire ? 5 5 The late 
King Edward’s Perrier also looked trained to 
the hour, and altogether, in one way and 
another, I soon began to realize that my mare 
had a big task before her. 
So my thoughts ran as the field cantered to 
the post, a buzz of admiration humming 
through the crowd as the popular favourites 
filed past the stand. Scarcely a dozen 
members of the hundreds of thousands of 
people present paid any attention to the 
despised Signorinetta, who, however, I 
remarked, strode out gallantly on the hard 
going with that machine-like, effortless, 
daisy - cutting stride which, in itself, in 
a racehorse almost invariably betokens 
stamina. 
At last they’re off ! Vamose, I can see, 
has lost at least a couple of dozen lengths, 
and must, even now, be practically out of the 
race. I feel a pang of sympathy for his 
trainer that those months of anxious care 
should have so been turned to naught. They 
sweep up the hill and round Tattenham Corner. 
Mountain Apple shoots to the front. “ Moun- 
tain Apple for a thousand ! ” a roar goes up. 
But of a sudden the “ Apple ” drops back. 
The fate of his backers is sealed at once, as is 
that of the supporters of the Two Thousand 
Guineas winner, Norman III., whose colours 
are looked for in vain in the van. 
Suddenly, full of running on the outside, 
and gaining at every stride, something in 
“ white and blue hoops, blue sleeves, white 
cap ” is seen to shoot out. “ Whose colours 
are they ? ” say inexperienced racegoers, as 
they anxiously turn to their race-cards. At 
the distance Primer, the Kingsclere second 
favourite, makes his run, and it is seen that 
Maher is putting in a lot of good work on 
Llangwym. 
But it is too late. The — in the words of 
the crowd — “ something in white and blue 
hoops, blue sleeves, and white cap ” has won 
it. And that “ something ” is Signorinetta. 
Were I to live until the ripe age of Methuselah 
I shall never forget the impression made upon 
me as my mare galloped home an easy winner 
of the greatest race in the world. Was she 
not the daughter of the greatest treasure of 
my life ? For the value of the prize I cared 
not a jot. For the fact that I might have 
backed her to win me a fortune, but had 
not done so, I felt not a single pang of 
regret. 
All I remembered was that the years of 
care and trouble I had expended on her had 
borne good fruit. Ever since she had been 
broken in I had superintended her every 
gallop, had greeted her the first thing in the 
morning, and bade her good night each 
evening. When sporting prophets and racing 
experts had written her Derby chance down 
as hopeless, I had never for a single instant 
lost confidence in her ability to win the 
Blue Ribbon. Is it to be wondered at, 
therefore, that I felt as proud at Signorinetta’s 
Derby victory as the soldier father who hears 
that his son has won the Victoria Cross ? An 1 
is it to be wondered at that I witnessed the 
most impressive sight of my long racing career 
and of my life when my despised outsider 
galloped past the post a length and a half 
in front of a big Derby field ? 
My ambition had been realized at last, and, 
if possible, I was more pleased for Signorina’s 
sake than for my own. Originally I had 
intended to return to my home in Italy when- 
ever my racing ambition should have been 
realized. But two days later 1 was summoned 
by the late King Edward to the Royal box 
at Epsom. 
“Is it true, Chevalier, that you are now 
giving up racing in England to return home 
to Italy ? ” he asked. 
“ I had thought of doing so, sir/’ I replied. 
“ I am indeed sorry to hear that,” said His 
Majesty, as he shook me by the hand. “ We 
can ill afford to spare so good a sportsman.” 
And that’s why I am still breeding, owning, 
and training. But ten other Derby victories 
could never make so indelible an impression 
on my mind as that of Signorinetta, my 
despised, forlorn “ hundred-to-one-against ” 
chance. 
