Chapter VII: The Escapade

Acting on Carlton's advice, Gay did not enter her horses for Blackpool, Glasgow, Liverpool, Belfast, or Leeds; the Irish Meetings were of course out of the question with so small a stable, so that she was practically limited to three Meetings within easy reach of town.

"It was," as he privately expressed it to himself, "merely a flirtation with Trotting, not playing the game itself," and he hoped that like other ill-advised flirtations, it would die a natural death. Though he honestly believed that Trotting had a future in England if properly managed, he had most unwillingly come to the conclusion that Chris was right, and though it furnished a healthy amusement for a great number of cheery, happy people, under existing conditions it was decidedly neither his, nor any young girl's _milieu_.

No doubts whatever troubled Gay, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, and two days before the meeting at Waterloo Park, at which Silver Streak was to carry her colours for the first time in public, she succeeded in effecting what she had set her heart on, viz., the driving by herself at exercise of one of her horses.

With her usual incorrigible frankness she unfolded her plan to the Professor at luncheon, much to his horror and disgust.

"Can you not be content to be a spectator," he asked, "instead of participating actively in a sport (he pronounced the word with venom) which Lossie tells me claims as its closest adherents publicans and tradesmen? A nice thing it would be to find your butcher or fishmonger careering round the course beside you, encouraging you with shouts and cries such as are practised on all race-courses, or so I am informed, for I have never visited one. I deeply deplore this unhappy infatuation, but, as usual, my wishes are ignored," he concluded huffily.

"Don't be a prig, Heron," said Gay carelessly. "You can't help being a muff, I suppose, or Lossie a sneak, but for father's sake--and a better sportsman never breathed, as you know well enough--_do_ try to take a little interest in sport, even if you refuse to participate, as you elegantly express it. To hear you talk, one would think you were employed by the Anti-Everything-Healthy-League, and that you had a special mission to fulfil in saving everybody's soul--at the expense of his body, of course! It's enough to make the poor old dad turn in his grave to hear you go on as you do. If he were alive, he'd be the very first to back me up."

She glanced at the clock, and jumped up.

"Time and trains wait for no man," she said. "Run off to your laboratory, old chap, but before you go, give me a kiss--and your blessing."

She stood up on tip-toe to meet the Professor's chaste salute, imprinted somewhere in the neighbourhood of her ear.

"Expect me when you see me," she said maliciously as she made for the door, "and don't be surprised if I return in pads. There's sometimes an accident at Trotting, you know."

The Professor ambled towards her, shaking his head apprehensively, but Gay was half-way upstairs. She had only just time to catch her train, and would get down to Inigo Court by half-past three, with time enough to give the horses their work out round the track.

Tugwood had promised to borrow a speed wagon of a different pattern for her to drive in, for her disregard of public opinion did not go to the length of perching on a seat the size of a soup plate, with her legs stuck out on either side of the horse, which was the usual mode of progression.

On the journey down, she read the _Trotting World_, a journal devoted to the interests of the sport, and was delighted to find a paragraph about herself and Trotters in it.

"If a few more people of Miss Lawless' and Mr. Carlton Mackrell's class and position could be induced to patronise Trotting," she read, "the sport would soon assume its proper standing, and become, as in America, a national pastime."

Gay walked briskly along the country road leading to Inigo Court, and made her way to the stables. There she found Tugwood in Silver Streak's box, the horse already harnessed, and ready to be put to the wagon.

"Horses all right, Tugwood?" Gay asked, pulling on her driving gloves--thick bus-driver's gloves they were, bought on Carlton Mackrell's recommendation.

"Never better, miss, thank'ee. Silver Streak don't want too much work to-day, with 'is race so near, an' 'e's pretty fit. I 'ad 'im out early this mornin', just to work off any stiffness 'e might 'ave after a good spin against the watch yesterday. A mile easy at 'arf-speed, at a three-minute gait, is about all 'e wants now."

Gay laughed.

"I hope I shall be able to steady him," she said. "He does 'take hold' a bit sometimes, doesn't he?"

"On'y when 'e's racin', miss. 'E don't like to see nothin' in front of 'im. I expect you'll be surprised at the pace 'e goes, an' think 'e's runnin' away. But 'e ain't really, you know," he added reassuringly; "'is manners is too good to bolt with anybody, let alone a lady."

He chuckled at his joke as he helped Gay into the wagon, which was a boat-shaped Benjamin, weighing 46 lbs., the body much like the seat of an outrigger boat, with rounded ends to break the wind.

She made a very pretty picture as she sat in the wagon, excitement and the bloom of health showing in her face. As Tugwood led the horse on to the track, in accordance with instructions, she slipped her wrists through the loops in the reins, and planted her feet firmly against the foot-rests.

"Don't be nervous, miss," Tugwood urged. "Just keep a nice steady hold on 'im, an' keep in the middle of the track. Time enough to think of cuttin' the corners when you know more about it."

Gay had no intention of cutting the corners, and devoutly hoped that Silver Streak had none either, as Tugwood stepped to one side.

"Jog him, miss," he said, "and gradually let 'im out."

Gay did as she was told. Silver Streak "got into his stride" with a suddenness that was a little disconcerting, ready as she thought she was for it, and the wagon shot forward, while her arms felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets.

Shifting her position as soon as she had recovered her balance, she hung on to the reins like grim death, and steered for the middle of the track, as Silver Streak was evincing a partiality for the rails that spelled probable disaster at the bend, unable as she was to balance him properly.

The horse stretched himself out to his work in grand style, and before they had rounded the first turn, Gay felt convinced he was running away. The pace was tremendous, while the wind whistled past her ears and made her face smart with its force. She took a pull at the horse after the way she had seen drivers do when pulling up after a "brush," before a race started, but at once felt the uselessness of it, and was not surprised when Silver Streak pulled back, though his pull was of considerably greater strength than hers, and resulted in another temporary loss of balance, this time nearly over the dash-board.

The horse's hind feet were much too close to be pleasant, and she earnestly hoped he would not cast a shoe, which, for a certainty, must fly into her face, or so it seemed. Along the back stretch she cast a glance in Tugwood's direction, half expecting to see him brandishing his arms, or covering his eyes to avoid seeing her untimely end, but no such view met her gaze. On the contrary, he was leaning over the rails in an attitude that betokened an easy mind, and as she turned her head, he clapped his hands repeatedly, thus conveying to her the reassuring news that she was doing well.

She negotiated the home-bend nicely, though by this time her arms had begun to ache in earnest, and her breathing was not so regular and easy as on foot. Now her natural fears had subsided, she felt that she was having the time of her life, and disregarding her trainer's instructions, actually encouraged Silver Streak to go faster. This the horse did, and made the pace a cracker on the second circuit, though even then he was by no means going his fastest.

Approaching the spot where Tugwood was holding up his hand as a signal to stop, she took another pull at Silver Streak, but with as little result as before. Another pull, but with a like effect--the horse was evidently enjoying himself, and intended to complete another circuit. Gay's horrified look as she sped past, sitting back as far as she could, and hauling at the reins, brought a smile to Tugwood's face.

"Finds it ain't quite so easy as it looks," he said to himself, though with no anxiety, but as the wagon bore towards him again, he opened the gate leading to the stables, and walked down the track with outstretched arms to meet it.

Silver Streak saw him, and pricked his ears, at the same time slowing down till he dropped into a walk almost on the top of his trainer. Gay heaved a little sigh of relief as they turned off the track. She was quite numbed with the cold, and her feet felt like lumps of lead, while her hands shook violently from the strain, as she disengaged them from the reins, and jumped to the ground.

"That was ripping!" she said, stamping her feet.

Her voice sounded catchy, which was not to be wondered at after so much excitement, crammed into such a short time.

"I hope the extra lap won't hurt him, Tugwood?"

"Not a bit of it, miss. Why, 'e wasn't goin' fast enough to keep 'imself warm at any time. You didn't do the first mile in much under three minutes, I'll be bound."

"Well," said Gay, "I've never travelled so fast before in my life, behind a horse, anyhow. I wonder what the excitement of a race must be like?"

A mad idea to dress up as a man, and drive at the next Meeting flashed across her mind, but she dismissed it as altogether impracticable. Besides, it had been done before--in books, anyway--and Gay was nothing if not original.

"'Ow do you like drivin', miss?" Tugwood inquired, as he led Silver Streak back to his box.

"It's splendid!" Gay replied enthusiastically, "but it _does_ make your arms ache, doesn't it? Mine feel all on fire now."

"Ah, that always 'appens to a beginner," the trainer explained indulgently. "You'll get the better o' that after a few more turns, and learn to take a nice steady hold, just to feel his mouth, instead of hanging on like grim death. I suppose you won't drive Maudie to-night, miss? It's rather late, an' just on doin'-up time."

"Oh, very well, I won't, then," the girl answered, "but you must not think I am afraid, you know, because I'm not."

"No fear o' that from one of _your_ stock, miss. I've heard tell of your father, an' a better plucked 'un with 'osses never lived. I'm always to be found here, miss, so if you'll drop me a line any time you want a drive, I'll be waitin' for you."

With the promise of a speedy return, Gay took her departure, quite unaware that there had been an interested spectator of her work on the track, in the person of Mr. Rensslaer, who by accident was passing. He occasionally used the track in private for trying a horse when too far from his own place, and happening to look over the hoarding which enclosed the course, had seen Gay driving Silver Streak in his wagon, of which Tugwood had begged the loan.

The sight had greatly amused him, and as she passed, he ducked his head, afraid of "scaring" the girl, for he saw at a glance that she was a complete novice at the game, though he expressed himself emphatically and aloud on her performance.

"Now, that's what I call real sporting," he exclaimed, standing up in his wagon to get a better view, though even then his head barely reached the top of the hoarding.

"Wonder who she is?" he soliloquised. "I'll go in, and inquire of Tugwood when she's finished her work out. Mighty pretty girl, anyway, though she don't look altogether as if she's enjoying herself. That's a nice pure-gaited one she's driving--for England."

At the conclusion of the spin, and after Gay had left the place, Rensslaer continued his drive, turning in at the park gates, then made his way round to the stables, where Brusher Tugwood, hearing the approach of hoofs, left Silver Streak's box, and came out into the yard to see who it was.

His grim old face relaxed into a respectful smile, and he pulled at his cap as the new-comer sprang out of his road wagon, looped up his reins, and adjusted a horse-cloth with the quick dexterity of the professional.

Tugwood waited for developments, looking inquiringly at the powerful, straight-hipped horse in the wagon, and Rensslaer was quick to follow his glance.

"That's old 'Marvel Girl,'" he volunteered, and gave her pedigree; then immediately, keen enthusiasts both, they fell to talking and comparing notes of doings on both sides of the Atlantic, Rensslaer walking Tugwood restlessly up and down, the idea of his original quest quite vanishing from his mind.

"By the way," he said, suddenly remembering it, as he drew the "cooler" off his waiting horse and folded it up, "who is that young lady I saw going round the track a while ago in my wagon?"

"That was my young mistress, Miss Gay Lawless, sir, and very kind it was of you to humour her with the loan of that wagon; she couldn't have done what she was so dead set on else. It was 'er first drive, though where you see it from, I don't know, sir."

"So that was Miss Lawless, was it?" Rensslaer said thoughtfully. "I've heard the name only just lately. There was something in the _Trotting World_ about her, and some horses she had bought. It is a surprise to me to find a lady patronising Trotting."

"Well," said Tugwood, not desiring to typify his mistress as the example that proved the rule, "I shouldn't wonder if before long we don't 'ave a duchess trottin' 'orses under our Rules, the same as they do under the Jockey Club," but his tone lacked conviction.

"I suppose you know Mr. Carlton Mackrell, then," pursued Rensslaer, who himself did, and foresaw through him an introduction to Gay.

"Know 'im, sir? I should think I did indeed," the trainer assured him. "Why, it was me as introduced Mr. Mackrell to Trottin'," and he drew himself up proudly.

"Been fairly successful too, hasn't he?" Rensslaer inquired.

"Remarkably so, sir, I'm pleased to say," said Tugwood, bridling, "though I says it as shouldn't, seein' as 'ow I've 'ad the trainin' of his 'osses till quite lately. I left Mr. Mackrell to come to Miss Lawless, you see, sir, an' I 'ope to be as successful for 'er as I was for 'im, though of course Miss Gay 'as only just started, so to speak. I expect to 'ave a winner for 'er at the next meetin' 'ere, sir--that 'oss you see goin' roun' just now. Silver Streak 'is name is. Come an' 'ave a look over 'im."

Together they entered the horse's box, where Tugwood proceeded to recount Silver Streak's performances before he came into his charge.

"A nice horse," commented Rensslaer, "though I should call him too good-looking. Quite a picture compared to my mare outside, isn't he?" indicating with a jerk of his head the rough-and-ready-looking animal in the wagon. Certainly Silver Streak was more of the race-horse stamp than the trotter, and the expert shook his head as he looked him over from all points.

"Not a record-breaker, I think," he opined, "and what is his best time?"

"Two-twenty on this track, sir," the trainer said, "though I think I can improve 'im a lot on that time. In fact, Miss Gay thinks of enterin' 'im for the Champion Vase, an' though I won't go so far as to say he'll win it, some of the others will know they've been racin' before they're done. There's some good 'osses with form be'ind 'em waitin' with a view to that race. Demonstrator's one of 'em, an' Mr. Mackrell's Billy Q., wot won at the last meetin' 'ere, is not out of it by a long way. From what I know of that 'oss--an' I trained 'im for all 'is races--'e'll very near win it. Whatever beats 'im will win any'ow," he concluded.

"Well, we shall see," replied Rensslaer. "I must be off now, but you'll see me again before long. What did you say Mr. Mackrell's present address was?"

Tugwood did not remember having mentioned it, but he replied:

"The Bachelors' Club will find 'im, sir, though I shouldn't wonder if 'e don't 'ave to resign there afore long from wot I can see of it," he added to himself, but Rensslaer heard him as he climbed into his wagon and drove off.

Tugwood, left alone, shook his head gloomily. His late visitor's low estimate of English horses annoyed him by its assurance; he also resented the slur Rensslaer cast on the sport by abstaining from it in England, while practising it in most of the big capitals of Europe. A fine sportsman, with one of the finest, if not _the_ finest, stable of Trotters in the world, he was the very man to elevate and establish the sport firmly here, and it was with a sense of depression that Tugwood gave Silver Streak his evening feed, and remained to watch the horse eating it up.