The sporting chance

								

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.

CHAPTER III.
MOSTYN ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE.
"You enjoyed it?"  Anthony Royce laid his hand on Mostyn's arm and
looked smilingly into his face.  It was palpably a superfluous
question, for Mostyn's appreciation was plainly writ upon every
feature.  He was flushed and his lips were quivering, nor could he
give an immediate answer, finding it hard to struggle back from the
new world in which he had been revelling to the commonplaces of life.
Yet he felt that he was being keenly scrutinised; that those sharp
grey eyes were fixed upon him, taking in every detail of his
appearance, reading him like a book, gauging his emotions, studying,
not only his face but his very soul.  He wondered if he appeared a
fool, and grew hot at the thought.
"It's my first Derby," he said apologetically, taking refuge in a
self-evident fact.  "I have never seen a race before."
"And you enjoyed it?"  Royce repeated his question, rather for the
sake of opening conversation than for any other reason.
"Enjoyed it!"  Mostyn placed a heavy accent upon the first word.
"Why, I don't think I have ever enjoyed anything so much in all my
life.  I haven't been alive till to-day.  Oh!" he cried, clasping his