Chapter VI: At Kempton

A bright, frosty morning broke for Kempton's second day, and at Epsom, Chris Hannen whistled and sang while he cold-tubbed and dressed, in sheer light-heartedness born of the pleasing conviction of training and riding another winner before the day was out. Besides, Gay was coming to witness his triumph, and the prospect of some hours in her society was enough to make any man happy, he thought, while her "Never mind, old chap; better luck next time," would considerably soften the disappointment if he got beaten.

Having seen his horse started for the station, he himself followed later on his way to town to pick up Gay. That young lady was as cheerful as Chris as she went about the house fixing things up, and arranging for her brother's comfort during her absence.

"Now don't get into mischief, Heron," she had told him at breakfast. "I shall be back soon after five, and I'll tell you all about how Chris gets on. I _know_ you'll be interested to hear, won't you?" she added teasingly.

"I hope he will get on--and stop on," the Professor replied, with as near an approach to a joke as he ever permitted himself. "I like Chris Hannen," he went on, regarding his sister over the rim of his glasses, "and I wish he would give up that dangerous game before it gives _him_ up You have some influence with him, Gay; can you not exercise it?"

The light suddenly went out of her face; then she shook her head.

"Every man to his own game, Heron, and Chris is as devoted to 'chasing as you are to science, you dear old fossil!"

"Hum!" was all the Professor vouchsafed to this remark, for to compare _his_ pursuit with that of Chris was nothing short of an insult.

When Chris arrived about eleven o'clock he found Gay ready and waiting for him, dressed in a smart, workman-like tweed coat and skirt, and with her glasses slung. A remarkably good-looking and happy pair they looked as they drove to meet the coach that Effie's husband, Captain Bulteel, a sporting man--and who among Gay's friends was not sporting, except Lossie Holden?--was driving down to Kempton Park races.

A place had been found for Chris, and when they arrived at the rendezvous in Eaton Square they were received with great warmth, Gay especially, and were soon on their way.

Effie and Gay talked nineteen to the dozen, and the drive was very pleasant. Though not the coaching season, Tom Bulteel was no believer in his team standing idle during the winter, so drove them to all the suburban meetings, or to Richmond, and other places, when there was no racing within reach. Everyone was in the best of spirits, and expressed surprise when the coach turned on to the course--the all-absorbing topic of horses having claimed the party's attention on the way, it was little wonder that the journey seemed no sooner to commence than it was over.

Naturally everyone had asked Chris about each and every race on the card.

"I never give tips," laughed Chris. "If they come off, people grumble at the price or something--as though I could help that--and if they don't, they look aggrieved, and more than half suspect one of putting them away. But I'll tell you this much--I'm having my maximum of a 'pony' on, and I expect to get it back, plus adequate interest, you know."

Arrived on the course, they made their way to the paddock to find Beeswing. He was in his box, and showed no signs of the railway journey. The lad opened the door as they approached, touching his cap to Gay, and regarding her with the unabashed admiration peculiar to his class.

"All right?" Chris inquired, walking up to the horse and patting him, an example Gay instantly followed. "Good. My bag's in the dressing-room, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir. I see Captain Conant's traps there too. 'E's come to try and ride that 'orse of Gunn's, I s'pose."

"Yes, he always rides for that stable," Chris replied, and smiled. He had a way of summing up people; "drops her h's and calls it h'arsthma," was his definition of a rich, vulgar old woman he and Gay detested, and "a pair of spurs and a grin," had as aptly hit off Captain Conant, who fancied he could ride, and courted public disaster on every possible occasion. He was also an ardent but at present infrequent worshipper at Lossie's shrine, as, greatly to his disgust, his regiment was now quartered in Ireland.

"Pity Lossie's not here, eh, Gay?" whispered Chris in an aside. "Let's go and have some lunch--that is, _you_ can have some, while I will sit and watch you longingly, and dream of my next meat dinner!"

They returned to the coach for lunch, and Chris looked after Gay with the same care and attention that a trained nurse bestows on a patient whose will she has reason to think has been made in her favour, and the girl enjoyed herself thoroughly.

Captain Conant was to ride in the first race, and her remarks on his ability as a jockey, and his probable fate, would have quite unnerved the gentleman in question could he have heard them.

"There he goes!" she exclaimed as a man cantered past, "_what_ a seat! Did you ever see anything like it?"

Chris smiled.

"It _is_ ugly, isn't it?" he agreed, "but men ride in all shapes, you know, and it isn't always the best-looking in the saddle that is the strongest."

"I know that, thank you," Gay replied saucily, "but George Conant can't ride for nuts, and never will. I wonder he hasn't broken his neck long ago. Of course, he only rides the safest of jumpers, and even so, it's no odds on his not jumping first. You yourself told me, Chris," she added reproachfully, "that he often throws down his reins at the fences, and catches hold fore and aft, shrieking loudly if anything ranges alongside!"

Chris exploded.

"Well, yes," he said, "he's certainly not what one would call a bold horseman. He likes to have most of the course to himself, and regards it as a liberty if anyone approaches within two lengths of him. He once reported a jockey who had the temerity to shout 'Yah!' while they were both in the air over a fence, and in consequence of which remark he lost his balance--he has no grip, you know--and fell off."

"Frightened Isaac!" cried Gay indignantly.

"Well," continued Chris, "he described the ejaculation as an intimidating one, and was surprised that the Stewards did not immediately suspend the perpetrator from riding again. The next time the two met in a race, the professional did not confine his ejaculation to the fences, but kept up a running commentary upon poor George, while his remarks were rather more pungent than on the previous occasion. I have before now helped George back into the saddle over the 'drop' fences--chiefly by the slack of his breeches, you know--and he seemed surprised, not to say grateful, that I had not given him the gentle push that would have dissolved the precarious partnership between himself and his horse."

"Has he ever won anything?" Gay asked, laughing.

"Oh, yes. This year he has won two races, one a walk-over for a National Hunt flat race, and the other when there were three runners. One was not trying, and ran out after going half-way, while the jockey of the other was so beat two fences from home, that he lost his senses, and fell off on the flat. George did not notice this, and for the last quarter of a mile rode a desperate finish, mistaking the jeers of the crowd for appreciation."

"Bet you a pair of gloves he comes undone this time, falls barred," Gay said, and Chris closed, knowing it was a bad bet for him, but welcoming the prospect of buying gloves for Gay, and perhaps being permitted to button them up. What felicity!

Gay's glasses were turned to the starting-post.

"He can't get his horse to join the others," she announced. "He's speaking to the starter--who looks annoyed, from his attitude. I do believe there are tears in his eyes."

"Strong glasses yours, Gay, aren't they?" inquired Mrs. Bulteel mischievously, but Gay was too busy to heed her.

"They're running," she said the next moment. "George has got away all right, and the pace is good. Something in green--what is it, Chris?--is alongside him; oh-h!--that was a near thing. He all but came unglued, as you call it, at that first fence. He's got back again now, and is picking up his reins. Does he _always_ drop them when 'in the air'? Now they're coming to the ditch, and, by the way he's riding, I think I win my bet here. Sit back, _sit_ back, man!" she muttered, as George rose to the fence, and on landing was shot far up his horse's neck, whence he gradually pushed himself back into the saddle.

Mrs. Bulteel laughed right out; it was more interesting to watch Gay than the race.

"Hullo! one's down--blue and white chevrons!" Gay glanced at her card to see its name. "It's 'Topaz.' The jock's up all right, but Topaz is where he fell--winded, I expect. Where are the others?" sweeping the field with her glasses. "Oh, there they are, and Captain Conant's still on top."

The horses were running towards them now, and every incident of the race could be seen without glasses.

"Knight Errant's going best," Chris said. "By Jove, can't he jump! Just through the top of the fence where the 'give' is!"

The horses galloped past, and Gay put up her glasses as they rounded the bend into the back stretch.

"Two more down," she said, "and at the plain fence too! It's a bit on the angle, isn't it, Chris?"

He did not reply. He was watching the three remaining runners approach the water with a quiet smile.

"You'll win your gloves there if anywhere, Gay," he said. "George never did like the water."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the expected happened. George's horse galloped strongly up to the guard fence, dwelt for a second, and then gave a tremendous bound which carried him clear over the water. The impetus was evidently too much for his rider, who abandoned his reins, and incidentally his whip too, at the very moment his mount took off.

With a shriek of despair (which Gay declared she heard quite plainly), he described a parabola in the air, and descended in a heap in the middle of the water. His horse galloped on with the other two--it was not the first time his owner had parted company with him without apparent reason--and he showed his sense of the situation by lobbing along behind the others, thoroughly enjoying himself.

George remained in the water till he thought they had all gone over. He had no intention of being jumped on if he could help it, and he had sense enough to lie where he fell (and he fell pretty often), knowing that a horse coming behind cannot dodge you, if you are trying to dodge _him_. Then Lossie's admirer crawled out, a dripping, miserable-looking object, and made his way towards the paddock.

Passing close to the coach, Chris called out to him, "Not hurt, are you, George?" The reply was indistinct, though Gay supplied one.

"Hurt? Of course not!" she said, chuckling; "only badly frightened! And anyway, I've won my gloves!"

Soon after, Chris went over to change, and Gay was all impatience for his race to begin.

"You'll see something worth looking at," she informed the others. "Whenever I see Chris ride I think there's nothing like Steeplechasing, and whenever I see Mr. Mackrell drive, I think nothing can touch Trotting. I really believe I prefer Trotting, though, for it hasn't the danger of this game, and I don't like to see anyone I'm fond--anyone I know--run such risks."

"After all," said Effie, "it's a gentleman's sport, and if the dear boy _will_ break his neck at it, he must. But as to your Trotting mania, Gay," hurriedly changing the conversation as Gay whitened, "frankly, I don't think it's good enough for you, and Carlton ought to be ashamed of himself for infecting you with his taste for it."

"He didn't," retorted Gay. "I maintain that a perfect Trotter is every bit as pretty a sight as a horse racing--and not half so dangerous."

"Well, well!" said Effie, a shade of anxiety on her small, weather-beaten face, "take care you don't get drawn in too far, and talked about--it's unusual, you know, a girl going in for that sort of thing, and not quite nice. Pity you can't hand Mackrell over to Lossie--the Trotting Meetings would be good enough for her--they're not for you. Frankly, I think the Professor for once is quite right _there_."

But Gay was not listening, she was just asking herself whether she really were fond of Chris, and _how_ fond, when that gentleman cantered by with a cheerful nod, her opinion of him in the saddle being amply justified.

His lithe, graceful figure was seen to its best advantage in colours, while his long legs seemed riveted to his horse's sides--leaning slightly forward, and standing in his stirrups, he and his mount were in the most perfect unison, and personified the very poetry of motion.

"He'll take a lot of beating," one of the men on the coach prophesied. "He never says much about his horses, but I know he's very sweet on his chance to-day. I'm going into the Ring to back him," he added to Gay. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Put half-a-sovereign on for me, please," Gay replied, producing the coin, "and see if you can't get over the odds, whatever they are; say it's for a lady," she laughed, and the man lingered a moment to look at her bright face--yes, there was no doubt about it, all the men liked Gay.

In a few minutes the horses were off. There were eight runners, and a lightly-weighted one cut out the work at a strong pace. They strung out a bit over the first few fences, with the favourite Musketeer always nicely placed, and Chris on Beeswing lying handy.

Gay watched the race keenly, describing all the running to Mrs. Bulteel, who noted that most of her remarks concerned Chris.

"Watch him now," she exhorted. "Up! Well over! That's the way to ride over fences. Chris calls it the gentle art of sitting back. He says you _can't_ sit back too far."

As the horses passed them she called out, "Well done, Chris! Well done!" in girlish delight. She looked her very best just then, the cold air heightening her colour, her grey eyes almost black with excitement and pleasure.

A fall occurred at the fence before the water, but the rest got safely over, and Musketeer began to improve his position little by little. He was ridden by a jockey who had steered two Grand National winners, and Chris knew too much of the skill of the man to let him get too far ahead if he could help it, so he too sharpened up a bit. As they approached the last fence he saw he had only the favourite to beat, and from the way his own horse was going, he felt he had his measure.

They rose together, and for a few strides ran side by side, Chris going easily, while the other was "niggling" with his hands. Chris improved his position, calling out "Good-bye, Arthur!" having no desire to be caught "napping" by such a consummate artist at finishing as his opponent. He drew away with a length's lead, and in a flash out came the whip on the favourite, who responded gamely, and for a stride or two (or so it seemed to anxious Gay) looked like catching Chris.

But to even a poor judge of racing it was all over. Chris had a lot in hand, and galloped home an easy three-lengths winner, the jockey on the favourite ceasing to persevere when he saw it was hopeless. He was a fine horseman, and a merciful man, a combination by no means common.

"After all," said Gay, with a rapturous sigh, "I'm not sure that I would not rather see Chris win a race, than take the Gold Vase with one of my Trotters!"

"Why not do both, my dear?" said Effie dryly, "so long as you don't take Carlton Mackrell as well."