The Rider in Khaki Part 18

"Will you execute a commission for me?"

"With pleasure. Are you going to back my horse?"

"Yes; put me five hundred on," she said.

He thought it a large sum but made no remark except to say she might consider it done.

"I will get the best price possible," he said, "and I hope he will win."

"So do I," she replied.

Alan overheard this; she intended he should, and when the Baron left he said:

"You have backed the wrong horse this time; the Baron will not win."

"I suppose you think I ought to have backed your horse because you are my next-door neighbor?" she answered sharply.

He laughed.

"Most of your friends are on Bandmaster."

"Then I shall be able to chaff them when White Legs has won," she answered.

"I say, old man, your horse is coming with a rattle in the betting; there's a pot of money going on," said Harry Morby.

"Mine, no doubt," answered Alan. "I have sent out a late commission.

I am anxious to win; it will take Miss Berkeley down a peg; she always pins her faith to the Baron's colors."

"That's your fault," said Harry.

"Why?"

"Because you treat her with indifference and she doesn't deserve it."

"I am not aware of doing so," said Alan. He would have resented this from anybody except Morby, who was a privileged person.

Captain Morby did not pursue the subject further.

"You can keep a secret, Alan?" he asked.

"I'll try. You're a mysterious fellow, Harry."

"It's about the regiment," he said. "We're to hold ourselves ready at a moment's notice--don't split--I might be court-martialled."

"Whew!" whistled Alan. "This looks serious."

"Bet you there's war before long; it's a bigger cert than Bandmaster,"

said Harry.

"And I'm out of it."

"You needn't be. Join us again. You'll easily get your commission; they'll want all the men they can get, especially officers."

"If there is trouble I shall not be idle," said Alan.

"I know that, old fellow; no need to tell me that."

Something seemed to be in the air. There were many officers present and they were talking in groups of three or four. Judging by their faces it was not about racing; Alan noticed this and thought:

"It's coming, the great upheaval; Fraser's man is right. By Jove, I'll hustle, as Braund would say, when things begin to move."

The horses were going to the post and the June sun shone on the thirty bright jackets as they went past. The din in Tattersalls was deafening. In the crowded enclosure there was hardly room to move; eager backers jostled each other in their anxiety to get at the bookmakers.

Peet Craker left the rails for a moment as he saw Alan Chesney.

"I've a matter of a couple of thousand left against Bandmaster," he said.

"I'll have it," answered Alan; and the bookmaker said, "at a hundred to eight."

"That's a fair price," said Alan.

"Will he win, Mr. Chesney?"

"He has a real good chance, Peet," replied Alan.

The horses disappeared over the brow of the hill, cantered down the slope, and ranged behind the barrier, with the trees for a background.

It was a beautiful line of color as seen from the top of the stands.

CHAPTER XII

A FINE FINISH

The big field got away in an almost unbroken line, a splendid start; a loud shout proclaimed the race had commenced. For a few minutes they disappeared, then as they came up the rise the caps appeared over the brow of the hill, and in a couple of seconds the thirty horses were in full view, stretched across the wide course, advancing like a cavalry charge.

A wonderful race the Royal Hunt Cup, a beautiful sight. It has been described scores of times and no description exaggerates its charm.

The course is grand, the surroundings picturesque; historical a.s.sociations cling to the famous heath, where kings and princes, lords and commoners, have a.s.sembled year after year, and royal processions have come up the course amid the enthusiastic plaudits of vast crowds.

Truly the sport of racing is the sport of kings, and no less of a huge majority of the people.

Bernard Hallam and Valentine Braund acknowledged its charm. There was nothing quite like it anywhere, one of the racing sights of the world, different from Epsom on Derby Day, Doncaster on Leger Day, or glorious Goodwood, unique in its way; no such gathering can be seen in any other country.

The attention of thousands of people was riveted on the horses; all other thoughts were excluded. For a few brief moments everything was forgotten but the business in hand, the probable result, which horse would be added to the long roll of Hunt Cup winners.

The thirty horses were almost level as they came in sight, one or two stragglers, but it was an even race so far. As they began the ascent, the stiff pull to the winning-post, the field lengthened out, horse after horse fell back, and a dozen only possessed chances. The rise finds out the weak spots, and the lack of a final gallop makes a lot of difference. It takes a good horse to win a Hunt Cup; no matter if he does little after, he must be brilliant on the day.

Alan stood with Captain Morby and Captain Newport high on the grand-stand. They knew where to command the best view of the race; it was a climb, a scramble to get there, but worth it.