right. The old stager knows his way about, and will jockey himself better than the 'Cookies' can their own horses."
Purposely Larry sent the old blood across with the marks of a roll in the half-dried dam still fresh upon him.
The appearance of Tom upon his mud-caked "Leviathan" was the signal for shouts of derisive laughter. One whispered that Lord, a moment before, had been bribing the stable-boy to "give him a leg up."
"What shall I do," he was reported to have said, "if I come off in the race? I'll never get on again, myself, even if I'm whole lengths ahead, as I shall be. I suppose you couldn't follow us, sonny, just to be handy to pop me on again, in case I find myself on the ground?"
"Whiff!" went the pistol. Off the strange field started. Travers on "Temeraire," Brown on "the Rector," Tom astride "Leviathan," the village carrier on a mount borrowed from the local storekeeper, shearers on their Rosinantes—twenty, of all sizes, styles, and strides—jockeys high in stirrup, arching over neck, or leaning back to save their steed—all in a ruck. Now "Temeraire" draws out, Gumford storekeeper's nag presses him hard; "the Rector" creeps steadily to the fore.
Last time round; Storekeeper's nag well beat; "Temeraire" and "Rector" neck to neck.
"Two to one on 'Rector'!" incautiously cries one, of habit taught. All were too intent to heed.
"Well ridden, Parson! 'Rector''s got it!" was the cry. Turning towards "the straight," Frank Brown had clearly secured the inside running.
"Bravo, 'Rector'! 'Temeraire''s out of it."
