Many of the excited spectators begin hallooing, and straddling, and working their arms as if their gestures and vociferations would assist the race.  Lord Scamperdale stands transfixed.  He is staring through his silver spectacles at the awkwardly lying ball that represents poor Spraggon.

‘By Heavens!’ exclaims he, in an undertone to himself, ’I believe he’s killed!’ And thereupon he swung down the stand-stairs, rushed to his horse, and, clapping spurs to his sides, struck across the country to the spot.

Long before he got there the increased uproar of the spectators announced the final struggle; and looking over his shoulder, he saw white jacket hugging his horse home, closely followed by red, and shooting past the winning-post.

‘Dash that Mr. Sponge!’ growled his lordship, as the cheers of the winners closed the scene.

‘The brute’s won, in spite of him!’ gasped Buckram, turning deadly pale at the sight.

CHAPTER LXIX

HOW OTHER THINGS CAME OFF

’Twere hard to say whether Lucy’s joy at Sponge’s safety, or Lord Scamperdale’s grief at poor Spraggon’s death, was most overpowering.  Each found relief in a copious flood of tears.  Lucy sobbed and laughed, and sobbed and laughed again; and seemed as if her little heart would burst its bounds.  The mob, ever open to sentiment—­especially the sentiment of beauty—­cheered and shouted as she rode with her lover from the winning to the weighing-post.

‘A’, she’s a bonny un!’ exclaimed a countryman, looking intently up in her face.

‘She is that!’ cried another, doing the same.

‘Three cheers for the lady!’ shouted a tall Shaggyford rough, taking off his woolly cap, and waving it.

‘Hoo-ray! hoo-ray! hoo-ray!’ shouted a group of flannel-clad navvies.

‘Three for white jacket!’ then roared a blue-coated butcher, who had won as many half-crowns on the race.—­Three cheers were given for the unwilling winner.

‘Oh, my poor dear Jack!’ exclaimed his lordship, throwing himself off his horse, and wringing his hands in despair, as a select party of thimble-riggers, who had gone to Jack’s assistance, raised him up, and turned his ghastly face, with his eyes squinting inside out, and the foam still on his mouth, full upon him.  ‘Oh, my poor dear Jack!’ repeated his lordship, sinking on his knees beside him, and grasping his stiffening hand as he spoke.  His lordship sank overpowered upon the body.

The thimble-riggers then availed themselves of the opportunity to ease his lordship and Jack of their watches and the few shillings they had about them, and departed.

When a lord is in distress, consolation is never long in coming; and Lord Scamperdale had hardly got over the first paroxysms of grief, and gathered up Jack’s cap, and the fragments of his spectacles, ere Jawleyford, who had noticed his abrupt departure from the stand and scurry across the country, arrived at the spot.  His lordship was still in the full agony of woe; still grasping and bedewing Jack’s cold hand with his tears.