The water is approached, the excitement of the multitude is something fearful as they sway to and fro to catch a glimpse.
"Magnificent!" burst from thousands of throats, as Guardsman hopped over the formidable eighteen feet like a bird.
George turned slightly in his saddle to take stock. "All safe but three," he uttered; "well, that is more than I thought would get over. Now, old man, I must take a pull at you. You have only done part of the journey. I can't afford to pump you yet."
"Guardsman has cut it," shouted a hundred voices as the gallant horse was pulled back.
"Don't you believe it," cried the sly-looking little man, in a shrill voice that was heard all over the place. "I'll take three to one in thous, and do it twice, that Guardsman wins, or is placed."
"Done," said the pale delicate youth; "I'm on for twice." And the pencils went to work.
There was but one opinion amongst the countless thousands that Guardsman was the best horse in the race, and that, bar accidents, he must win.
The field has become very select now; still what do remain in the chase go well.
The excitement is intense; men are gnawing their lips and nails; ladies are quivering with emotion and biting the tips of their delicate-coloured gloves.
Wild and staring eyes are everywhere. Men eagerly grasp each other by the arm with a wild convulsive clutch as the horses clear each obstacle. Some stand stony and immovable, without the slightest appearance of interest. Little is known of the fearful beatings of their hearts under that cold, calm exterior.
"Here they come!" said the crowd, as some eight or ten horses make the turn for home.
"Guardsman baked!" shouts the ring, as the horse is seen nearly last.
"The Irish horse wins for a thousand," shouts an over-excited speculator.
"Done," says the sly-looking little man, and again the metallics are at work.
Lord Plunger looks on with a calm indifferent demeanour.
"By G--, Plunger," said one of George's old messmates, with a scared countenance, "Bradon is done. We shall all drop finely."
The last hurdle but one is taken, which the Irish horse jumps first; but what a change has taken place in the field! Scarlet and white hoops, instead of being nearly last, is hanging on the leading horse's quarters, and it is very patent to all those skilled in racing matters that from the manner Guardsman skimmed over the hurdle the other horse was only permitted to lead on sufferance.