“Now is the time, young ladies, to make your bets.”
“I don’t know even the name of anyone in this first race,” Isobel said, looking at the card.
“That doesn’t matter in the least, Miss Hannay,” Wilson, who had just come up to the side of the carriage, said. “There are six horses in; you pick out any one you like, and I will lay you five pairs of gloves to one against him.”
“But how am I to pick out when I don’t know anything about them, Mr. Wilson? I might pick out one that had no chance at all.”
“Yes; but you might pick out the favorite, Miss Hannay, so that it is quite fair.”
“Don’t you bet, Isobel,” her uncle said. “Let us have a sweepstake instead.”
“What is a sweepstake, uncle?”
There was a general laugh.
“Well, my dear, we each put in a rupee. There are six of us, and there are Wilson and the Doctor. You will go in, Doctor, won’t you?”
“Yes; I don’t mind throwing away a rupee, Major.”
“Very well, that makes eight. We put eight pieces of paper in the hat. Six of them have got the names of the horses on, the other two are blank. Then we each pull out one. Whoever draws the name of the horse that wins takes five rupees, the holder of the second two, and the third saves his stake. You shall hold the stakes, Mrs. Hunter. We have all confidence in you.”
The slips were drawn.
“My horse is Bruce,” Isobel said.
“There he is, Miss Hannay,” Wilson, who had drawn a blank, said, as a horse whose rider had a straw colored jacket and cap came cantering along the course. “This is a race for country horses—owners up. That means ridden by their owners. That is Pearson of the 13th Native Cavalry. He brought the horse over from Lucknow.”
“What chance has he?”
“I have not the least idea, Miss Hannay. I did not hear any betting on this race at all.”
“That is a nice horse, uncle,” Isobel said, as one with a rider in black jacket, with red cap, came past.
“That is Delhi. Yes, it has good action.”
“That is mine,” the eldest Miss Hunter said.
“The rider is a good looking young fellow,” the Doctor said, “and is perfectly conscious of it himself. Who is he, Wilson? I don’t know him.”
“He is a civilian. Belongs to the public works, I think.”
The other horses now came along, and after short preliminary canters the start was made. To Isobel’s disappointment her horse was never in the race, which Delhi looked like winning until near the post, when a rather common looking horse, which had been lying a short distance behind him, came up with a rush and won by a length.
“I don’t call that fair,” Miss Hunter said, “when the other was first all along. I call that a mean way of winning, don’t you, father?”
“Well, no, my dear. It was easy to see for the last quarter of a mile that the other was making what is called ‘a waiting race’ of it, and was only biding his time. There is nothing unfair in that, I fancy Delhi might have won if he had had a better jockey. His rider never really called upon him till it was too late. He was so thoroughly satisfied with himself and his position in the race that he was taken completely by surprise when Moonshee came suddenly up to him.”
“Well, I think it is very hard upon Delhi, father, after keeping ahead all the way and going so nicely. I think everyone ought to do their best from the first.”
“I fancy you are thinking, Miss Hunter,” the Doctor said, “quite as much that it is hard on you being beaten after your hopes had been raised, as it is upon the horse.”
“Perhaps I am, Doctor,” she admitted.
“I think it is much harder on me,” Isobel said. “You have had the satisfaction of thinking all along that your horse was going to win, while mine never gave me the least bit of hope.”
“The proper expression, Miss Hannay, is, your horse never flattered you.”
“Then I think it is a very silly expression, Mr. Wilson, because I don’t see that flattery has anything to do with it.”
“Ah, here is Bathurst,” the Doctor said. “Where have you been, Bathurst? You slipped away from me just now.”
“I’ve just been talking to the Commissioner, Doctor. I have been trying to get him to see—”
“Why, you don’t mean to say,” the Doctor broke in, “that you have been trying to cram your theories down his throat on a racecourse?”
“It was before the race began,” Bathurst said, “and I don’t think the Commissioner has any more interest in racing than I have.”
“Not in racing,” the Doctor agreed, “but I expect he has an interest in enjoying himself generally, which is a thing you don’t seem to have the most remote idea of. Here we are just getting up a sweepstake for the next race; hand over a rupee and try to get up an interest in it. Do try and forget your work till the race is over. I have brought you here to do you good. I regard you as my patient, and I give you my medical orders that you are to enjoy yourself.”
Bathurst laughed.
“I am enjoying myself in my way, Doctor.”
“Who is that very pretty woman standing up in the next carriage but one?” Isobel asked.
“She comes from an out station,” the Doctor repeated; “she is the wife of the Collector there, but I think she likes Cawnpore better than Boorgum; her name is Rose.”
“Is that her husband talking to her?”
“No; that is a man in the Artillery here, I think.”
“Yes,” the Major said, “that is Harrowby, a good looking fellow, and quite a ladies’ man.”
“Do you mean a man ladies like, uncle, or who likes the society of ladies?”
“Both in his case, I should fancy,” the Major said; “I believe he is considered one of the best looking men in the service.”
“I don’t see why he should be liked for that,” Isobel said. “As far as I have seen, good looking men are not so pleasant as others. I suppose it is because they are conscious of their own good looks, and therefore do not take the trouble of being amusing. We had one very good looking man on board ship, and he was the dullest man to talk to on board. No, Doctor, I won’t have any names mentioned, but I am right, am I not?”
“He was a dull specimen, certainly,” the Doctor said, “but I think you are a little too sweeping.”
“I don’t mean all good looking men, of course, but men who what I call go in for being good looking. I don’t know whether you know what I mean. What are you smiling at, Mr. Wilson?”
“I was thinking of two or three men I know to whom your description applies, Miss Hannay; but I must be going—they are just going to start the next race, and mine is the one after, so I must go and get ready. You wish me success, don’t you?”
“I wish you all the success you deserve. I can’t say more than that, can I?”
“I am afraid that is saying very little,” he laughed. “I don’t expect to win, but I do hope I shall beat Richards, because he is so cock sure he will beat me.”
This wish was not gratified. The first and second horses made a close race of it; behind them by ten or twelve lengths came the other horses in a clump, Wilson and Richards singling themselves out in the last hundred yards and making a desperate race for the third place, for which they made a dead heat, amid great laughter from their comrades.
“That is excellent,” Major Hannay said; “you won’t see anything more amusing than that today, girls. The third horse simply saved his stake, so that as they will of course