"They'll never catch him. The Ambler wins! It's a walk-over! The
Ambler!"
Silent amidst the shouting throng, George thought: 'My horse! my horse!'
and tears of pure emotion sprang into his eyes. For a full minute he
stood quite still; then, instinctively adjusting hat and tie, made his
way calmly to the Paddock. He left it to his trainer to lead the Ambler
back, and joined him at the weighing-room.
The little jockey was seated, nursing his saddle, negligent and
saturnine, awaiting the words "All right."
Blacksmith said quietly:
"Well, sir, we've pulled it off. Four lengths. I've told Swells he does
no more riding for me. There's a gold-mine given away. What on earth was
he about to come in by himself like that? We shan't get into the 'City'
now under nine stone. It's enough to make a man cry!"
And, looking at his trainer, George saw the little man's lips quiver.
In his stall, streaked with sweat, his hind-legs outstretched, fretting
under the ministrations of the groom, the Ambler stayed the whisking
of his head to look at his owner, and once more George met that
long, proud, soft glance. He laid his gloved hand on the horse's
lather-flecked neck. The Ambler tossed his head and turned it away.
George came out into the open, and made his way towards the Stand.
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