--Mr.--ah, yes--Beverley.
Show you some sport at Brighton, sir. A magnificent race,
--congratulate you, sir. Must see more of you!"
Then, still as one in a dream, Barnabas bows again, sees Martin at
"The Terror's" bridle, and is led back, through a pushing, jostling
throng all eager to behold the winner, and thus, presently finds
himself once more in the quiet of the paddock behind the "White Hart"
inn.
Stiffly and painfully he descends from the saddle, hears a feeble
voice call his name and turning, beholds a hurdle set in the shade
of a tree, and upon the hurdle the long, limp form of Captain
Slingsby, with three or four strangers kneeling beside him.
"Ah, Beverley!" said he faintly. "Glad you beat Carnaby, he--crowded
me a bit--at the wall, y' know. Poor old 'Rascal' 's gone,
b'gad--and I'm going, but prefer to--go--out of doors,--seems more
room for it somehow--give me the sky to look at. Told you it would
be a grand race, and--b'gad, so it was! Best I--ever rode--or ever
shall. Eh--what, Beverley? No, no--mustn't take it--so hard, dear
fellow. B'gad it--might be worse, y' know. I--might have lost,
and--lived--been deeper in Gaunt's clutches than ever,--then.
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