Chapter II: Mostyn Sees the Derby

An hour before the big race Mostyn stood in the Paddock, by the side of his mentor, and pretended to pass a critical eye upon the horses generally, and upon Hipponous in particular.

The second favourite was a chestnut with three white stockings. His mane had been hogged, and he had--for a racehorse--an unusually large tail. Tyro as he was, Mostyn could understand the value of the large roomy flanks and magnificent barrel, and as the colt picked its way delicately round the circle, sweating slightly from excitement and glancing intelligently from side to side, it seemed as if he appreciated the fact that it was Derby Day, and realised the magnitude of the task before him.

A kaleidoscopic crowd surged round the horse, a crowd that Mostyn failed to understand till Royce explained that the "open sesame" to the Paddock could be obtained by the payment of a sovereign, which accounted for the general rubbing of shoulders and absence of class distinction.

Scraps of conversation, indistinctly overheard, amused, astonished, and perhaps instructed, him. There was a portly woman with a red face and a large feather hat, who pushed her way to the front, and said wheezingly to a thin little man at her side: "'Ullo, 'ere's Black Diamond."

"No, it ain't," responded her companion. "Look at the number. That's 'Ippernouse. He won the Middle Park Plate when I 'ad a dollar on 'im, and I'm going to put a couple o' quid on 'im to-day."

"I'll back Black Diamond," returned the fat woman, "because my first husband kept a small public called the 'Lord Napier' up past the 'Nag's Head' before we were married, and Black Diamond belongs to Lord Napier, so that's good enough for my money."

They drifted away and their place was taken by a couple of shrewd-looking club-men in long covert cloaks and bowler hats, with glasses slung over their shoulders. Mostyn heard one of them say to the other in an undertone: "Here's Hipponous. Look at his magnificent quarters. Don't forget to wire off immediately to Cork if he wins, and tell Dickson that I'll take the colt he has in his stables, brother to Hipponous, and if he throws the mare in I'll pay two thousand guineas for the pair."

This was business, and presently Mostyn heard business of another kind. "I like the looks of 'Ippernous," said a loudly dressed individual with white hat and check waistcoat--obviously a book-maker--to his clerk. "We can't afford to let him run loose, and I'll put fifty on for the book."

The remarks, however, were not all appreciative. There was a tall man with a vacant stare and a monocle, who was drawling out his comments to a well-dressed woman at his side. "Not an earthly, my dear. Don't waste your money on Hipponous. The favourite can't possibly lose. Algy told me at the club last night that he had laid six monkeys to four on it, and if it doesn't come off he'll have to tap the old man again or send in his papers."

Then again: "What on earth do they call this horse Hipponous for?" queried a pretty little soubrette, hanging on the arm of a young gentleman in a very long frock coat, suggestive of the counter. "Don't know, Ellice," was the reply, "but give me Lochiel, the fav'rit." "Oh, no," she urged, "do back Hipponous! He's got such pretty colours--scarlet and silver--just like that dress I had last Christmas for the Licensed Victuallers' Ball."

Finally, there was the comment facetious: "'Ippernous," said a seedy-looking man with pasty face to the lad who was leading the colt round, "W'y didn't they call 'im 'Ipperpotamus, an' a' done with it? A fine lookin' colt, mind yer, but not quite good enough to beat the fav'rit, 'oo will 'ave the satisfaction of carryin' a couple of Oxfords for Jim Simson of Kemberwell."

Mostyn had but a dim understanding of all this, but his heart leapt within him when Pierce came up, and smiting him cordially on the back, carried him off to wish good luck to Sir Roderick, who was standing by the side of his horse in the company of Joseph Dean, the famous trainer, and of Fred Martin, the jockey, who held the record of winning mounts for the year before. Martin wore Sir Roderick's colours--silver and scarlet--and his little twinkling eyes glittered as he confided to Mostyn that he was proud to wear them, and that he had every confidence in his horse--that he hoped to score his fifth Derby success.

Mostyn felt in the seventh heaven, a privileged being, all the more so since envious eyes were upon him. It was all he could do to hold himself with becoming gravity. His great desire was to pose as a man of experience, but, at the same time, there were so many questions he wished to ask. And at last his evil genius impelled him to an ineptitude, one of those blunders that seemed to come so easily to his tongue: he wanted to know Hipponous's age! Something in the jockey's stare as he made answer warned Mostyn of danger, and he moved away as soon as he dared.

"That's 'Ipponous, ain't it?" An ungrammatical stranger, who, in spite of his horsey attire, was evidently but poorly informed, pushed his way to Mostyn's side. "A fine horse--what?"

"I should think so," responded the young man heartily. "An Irish horse; comes from Sir Roderick Macphane's stables in Ulster. Trained by Joseph Dean here at Epsom." Mostyn felt on safe ground in giving this information.

"Ah!" The stranger leered out of the corner of his eye. "I dessay you know a bit, what? I see you talking to Martin just now. What does Martin think of his mount?"

"Why, he says"--Mostyn got no further, for luckily at that moment Anthony Royce appeared, and, laying his hand upon his young friend's arm gently led him away, very much to the annoyance of the stranger.

"Be careful of affable folk who try to get into conversation with you on the race-course," was all the reproach that Royce uttered; but Mostyn felt that he had been about to blunder, and once more anathematised himself for a fool.

The American did not lose sight of his young _protégé_ again after that, but devoted himself to his work of instruction. Mostyn absorbed knowledge eagerly. "I asked Martin how old his horse was," he was constrained to admit.

Royce's sides shook with silent laughter. "Never mind," he said. "You'll know better next time." Then he went on to explain about betting, and how easily the market may be affected. "If you want to have a bet," he added, "I'll introduce you in the right quarter. You can't do better than back Hipponous to win and a place. He'll start at four to one. I don't believe in the favourite, though it's money on."

But Mostyn shook his head. "I don't want to bet," he said. "Gambling doesn't attract me a bit. It's just the sport of the thing."

And so the time had passed until the course was cleared for the big race. Mostyn had remained in the Paddock almost to the last minute, and then Royce had hurried him back to the coach. They had remained close to the railings, however, to see the preliminary canter.

"I don't fancy the favourite," Royce repeated. "Lochiel may have won the Guineas, but he's got a devilish uncertain temper. He'll either win in a walk or come in with the ruck. But there's a lot of good stuff," he continued, as the horses galloped down the course, followed by the comments of the crowd, "and it promises to be an uncommonly open race."

Anthony Royce's prophecy was correct. The race proved an extremely open one, and moreover it was full of surprises, notably the early defeat of the favourite and the prowess of a rank outsider. Lochiel made a bad start and dropped out long before the horses had come into the straight, while Peveril, who had hardly been considered at all and who stood fifty to one in the betting, got away ahead and maintained his lead almost to the finish. At Tattenham Corner Peveril, a lanky, ungainly horse, bestridden by an American jockey who bore the colours of an unpopular financier, was still, though almost imperceptibly, in advance. The jockey, craning forward and sitting almost upon the horse's neck, was making liberal use of his whip.

Royce took the field-glasses from Mostyn's unconscious hand. "Peveril, by all that's holy!" he muttered. "A dark horse. Is this one of Isaacson's tricks?" The next moment he was yelling "Hipponous! Come along, Hipponous!" for he had caught the glitter of the silver as Sir Roderick's horse, almost neck to neck with another, swept into view.

And now a moment of palpitating silence fell. Four of the horses were almost abreast, and another couple only a few paces behind. Mostyn, standing up upon the coach and straining his eyes, felt his heart thumping against his chest and his knees knocking together because of the thrill that ran down his spine. He wanted to shout, but he, too, was affected by the spell that had fallen upon that great throbbing mass of humanity; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; his lips were numb, paralysed. In a few moments he knew that he would lend his voice to the great cry that must go up from the multitude; then would come relief from a strain that was near the breaking point.

He had no bet upon the race, save for a couple of shares in a sweepstake that had been organised on the way down; yet, perhaps, none in that vast throng, however interested, however deeply involved, felt the emotion of the moment as keenly as Mostyn Clithero. It was the awakening of a new sensation, the rousing of a new passion, something that had been crushed down and was asserting itself with the greater strength now that it had at last obtained the mastery. It was the love of sport for its own sake; Anthony Royce had seen quite enough of his new friend during the day to realise that.

The silence broke. Like an oncoming billow a low mutter, gradually swelling and rising, went up from the crowd. Mostyn had the impression of two vast waves facing each other, arrested in their onward rush and leaving a clear space between. He felt himself an atom amid a myriad of atoms in a turbulent sea: he had been in the depths, unable to breathe, oppressed by a great weight, but now, as he rose to the surface, the tension was relaxed, the strain broken. He could see, he could hear, he was shouting with the rest, alternately clapping his hands and lifting his hat in the air, yielding himself absolutely to an excitement which was as new to him as it was delightful. Never before had his pulses throbbed so quickly, his nerves felt so completely on the stretch.

The horses swept by. It was a fine, a memorable race, a race to live in the annals of great sporting events. There was every excuse for Mostyn's excitement. His was not the only heart to beat quickly that day.

Three horses, almost abreast, approached the winning-post. They were Peveril, Black Diamond, and Hipponous; a fourth, Beppo, had dropped a little behind, evidently done. Peveril was not in favour with the crowd; it was mainly for Hipponous that the cry went up. Mostyn yelled the name of Sir Roderick's colt till he was hoarse.

"Come on Hipponous! Hip--Hip--Hipponous!"

And at the last moment, just as it seemed that Sir Roderick's hopes were to be dashed to the ground, Hipponous made a brave spurt. He was placed between the other two, his flanks just visible behind them. Suddenly these flanks were no longer seen; the three horses appeared a compact mass, a mass of blended and harmonised colour. Mostyn seemed to see the silver and scarlet through a yellow mist, for the sun's rays fell slantingly over the course; they caught the gold, the pink and the mauve which distinguished the jockeys upon Peveril and Black Diamond, as well as the silver and scarlet of Hipponous, blending the whole into a scintillating gold, all the more vivid for the black background of humanity rising tier upon tier to the highest level of the Grand Stand.

Which horse, if any, had the lead? It was impossible to say.

They flashed past the winning post, a gleaming mass of colour. Three horses, neck to neck as it seemed to the crowd. Which had won? Was it--could it be--a tie for the three of them? There was a note of doubt in the yelling of the mob.

"Peveril--no, Black Diamond!" "I tell yer it was 'Ippernous! Wait till the numbers go up!"

Beppo and the other horses which had been well in the running, sped by in their turn; then came the stragglers with the favourite, Lochiel, last but one. A groan of derision went up as he passed; it was a bad day for his jockey, who happened to be Martin's chief rival.

After that the course became a sea of black, rushing humanity; the two great waves had broken and the space between them was annihilated. And presently there was another roar from the crowd, no longer of doubt. The numbers had gone up, and, a little later, the "all right" was cried. Hipponous first; Black Diamond and Peveril tied for second place. Bravo, Hipponous! Hurrah for Sir Roderick Macphane!

Another Derby had been won, and the victory was to the best horse. Sir Roderick Macphane had realised the ambition of his life, and Mostyn Clithero had caught the infection of a great passion. The latter, no doubt, was but a small event in itself, but the young man felt vaguely, as he stood there gazing straight before him, though the race was over, that he had somehow reached a turning point in his life.