The sporting chance

								

"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