"It's Mr. Beverley, sir!" roars the voice. "Beverley!
Beverley--hurrah!"
Little by little the crowd takes up the cry until the air rings with
it, for now the great, black horse gallops half a length ahead of
the sobbing gray, and increases his lead with every stride, by
inches--by feet! On and on until his bridle is caught and held, and
he is brought to a stand. Then, looking round, Barnabas sees the
Marquis rein up beside him, breathless he is still, and splashed
with mud and foam, but smiling and debonair as he reaches out his
hand.
"Congratulations, Beverley!" he pants. "Grand race!--I caught
Carnaby--at the post. Now, if it hadn't been for--my cravat--" But
here the numbness comes upon Barnabas again, and, as one in a dream,
he is aware that his horse is being led through the crowd--that he
is bowing to some one in the gaudy pavilion, a handsome, tall, and
chubby gentleman remarkable for waistcoat and whiskers.
"Well ridden, sir!" says the gentleman. "Couldn't have done it
better myself, no, by Gad I couldn't--could I, Sherry?"
"No, George, by George you couldn't!" answered a voice.
"Must take a run down to Brighton, Mr.
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