“They’re off!” That roar, like the cry of a monster, sounded all around.  George steadied his glasses on the rail.  Blue with white stripes was leading, the Ambler lying last.  Thus they came round the further bend.  And Providence, as though determined that someone should benefit by his absorption, sent a hand sliding under George’s elbows, to remove the pin from his tie and slide away.  Round Tattenham Corner George saw his horse take the lead.  So, with straw closing up, they came into the straight.  The Ambler’s jockey looked back and raised his whip; in that instant, as if by magic, straw drew level; down came the whip on the Ambler’s flank; again as by magic straw was in front.  The saying of his old jockey darted through George’s mind:  “Mark my words, sir, that ’orse knows what’s what, and when they’re like that they’re best let alone.”

“Sit still, you fool!” he muttered.

The whip came down again; straw was two lengths in front.

Someone behind said: 

“The favourite’s beat!  No, he’s not, by Jove!” For as though George’s groan had found its way to the jockey’s ears, he dropped his whip.  The Ambler sprang forward.  George saw that he was gaining.  All his soul went out to his horse’s struggle.  In each of those fifteen seconds he died and was born again; with each stride all that was loyal and brave in his nature leaped into flame, all that was base sank, for he himself was racing with his horse, and the sweat poured down his brow.  And his lips babbled broken sounds that no one heard, for all around were babbling too.

Locked together, the Ambler and straw ran home.  Then followed a hush, for no one knew which of the two had won.  The numbers went up “Seven-Two-Five.”

“The favourite’s second!  Beaten by a nose!” said a voice.

George bowed his head, and his whole spirit felt numb.  He closed his glasses and moved with the crowd to the stairs.  A voice behind him said: 

“He’d have won in another stride!”

Another answered: 

“I hate that sort of horse.  He curled up at the whip.”

George ground his teeth.

“Curse you!” he muttered, “you little Cockney; what do you know about a horse?”

The crowd surged; the speakers were lost to sight.

The long descent from the stand gave him time.  No trace of emotion showed on his face when he appeared in the paddock.  Blacksmith the trainer stood by the Ambler’s stall.

“That idiot Tipping lost us the race, sir,” he began with quivering lips.  “If he’d only left him alone, the horse would have won in a canter.  What on earth made him use his whip?  He deserves to lose his license.  He——­”

The gall and bitterness of defeat surged into George’s brain.

“It’s no good your talking, Blacksmith,” he said; “you put him up.  What the devil made you quarrel with Swells?”

The little man’s chin dropped in sheer surprise.