He suffers, moreover, from short sight
and in consequence is a notoriously bad starter. On the morning in question
he failed for several minutes to observe Piggott's pantomime, and Speedwell
had almost traversed half the distance while Tiny Tim still lingered in the
vicinity of the starting post. Only by the most exaggerated gestures did
Piggott get him off. Once going, however, he took the bit in his teeth and
went like the wind. Soon I caught the pit-pat of his footfall approaching.
I pulled Speedwell together for a supreme effort. But there were still two
hundred yards to cover as his rival drew abreast. A terrific race ensued.
Scared at the spectacle of the other's alarm, each redoubled his exertions.
Neck and neck they ran. Could Tiny Tim last? Had he shot his bolt? Could
Speedwell wear him down?
Unfortunately the question was never settled. As they raced they overtook a
group of business men, youngsters of forty or so, untried colts that had
never yet been run by Piggott or me. These suddenly took fright and bolted.
Inextricably mingled with our pair the whole lot stampeded like a herd of
mustangs. The station approach scintillated with the flashing of spats as
the Field breasted the rise. It was a grand sight, though so many fouls
occurred that it was obvious the race was off. But things became serious
when the entire crowd attempted to pass simultaneously through the
booking-hall doors. Speedwell sprained a pastern and Tiny Tim sustained a
severe kick on the fetlock.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25