"George!" exclaimed Sir Gerald Mason. "It's a procession!"
A horse had run off with the lead. He not only kept it, but increased it as he went. The race was finished.
"A walk over for Devil's Own," remarked the gentleman who last had clambered on to the coach. He turned to Mr. Major, "I should like, sir, to know your friend."
"How much have you won, Mr. Major?"
The inquiry came from Miss Davidson. Mr. Major glanced at his couple of pasteboards.
"I have eight thousand four hundred on with one man, and nineteen thousand six hundred with another; that's twenty-eight thousand pounds, at seven to four that's forty-nine thousand pounds."
Someone so far forgot good manners as to whistle; it was the gentleman who had clambered on to the coach. Mr. Major's glance sought Miss Davidson's. Her eyes were gleaming.
"All won? I congratulate you."
"Really?"
"With all my heart"
His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were gleaming too. Words seemed trembling on his tongue. Before he could utter them he was assailed with a question.
"What's going to win the next?"
It came in half a dozen voices. He glanced at the back of the envelope.
"Estrella will win the Visitors' Plate."
"Estrella! She'll never stay the course; and she's nowhere in the betting."
