The sporting chance

								

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