Where all the while is "Leviathan," with his confident jockey? Forging along, with even steady pace. Others may shoot forward, others drop behind, his level stride neither quickens nor slackens. Nay, it is quickening now! Slowly from out the field he draws. The clay brushed by living curry-combs from his shining sides, the jockey clinging manfully with both hands to the friendly pummel, the reins fluttering like ribbons in the breeze.
Now the self-riding steed is riding past Storekeeper's nag. Then drawing slowly ahead of brave "Temeraire," up to "the Rector," who is whipping hard; head to flank—to shoulder—they ride.
Neck to neck, they flash up "the straight," Frank riding as a jockey bred; Tom bundled up like a bicycle-rider, all elbows and legs! One second more! Old "Leviathan's" great eye glances round at his one competitor. The huge beast puts forth, for one last moment, his full powers. In a few strides Tom with his pummel shoots past the post, ere "Rector's" nose has come into line with it! The cheers that greeted the winner might have been heard at Gumford.
While other competitors were struggling to rein in their steeds, still dashing onward, "Leviathan," a few yards from the winning-post, duly comes to a standstill, almost throwing Tom across his neck. Jauntily but stiffly, the townsman dismounted, on the wrong side, descending like a miner down a ladder, and dropping from a little height on to the ground. Round the course the prize-rider was carried, bowing and grimacing to the applauding multitude.
"Didn't I tell you I'd beat the field?" he called to Travers and Frank, as they came to wring the victor's hands.
