Right Royal | Page 7

ways of the crook are hard to learn.
Now watch that fence at the outer turn;?It looks so slight but it's highly like?That it's killed more men than the Dyers' Dyke.?It's down in a dip and you turn to take it,?And men in a bunch, just there, mistake it.?But well to the right, it's firmer ground,?And the quick way there is the long way round.?In Cannibal's year, in just this weather,?There were five came down at that fence together.?I called it murder, not riding races.
You've nothing to fear from the other places,?Your horse can jump.
Now I'll say no more.?They say you're on, as I said before.?It's none of my business, sir, but still?I would like to say that I hope you will.?Sir, I wish you luck. When we two next meet?I hope to hear how you had them beat."
Charles Cothill nodded with, "Thank you, John.?We'll try; and, oh, you're a thousand on."
He heard John's thanks, but knew at a glance?That John was sure that he stood no chance.
He turned Right Royal, he drew deep breath?With the thought "Now for it; a ride to death."?"Now come, my beauty, for dear Em's sake,?And if come you can't, may our necks both break."
And there to his front, with their riders stooping?For the final word, were the racers trooping.
Out at the gate to cheers and banter?They paced in pride to begin their canter.
Muscatel with the big white star,?The roan Red Ember, and Kubbadar,
Kubbadar with his teeth bared yellow?At the Dakkanese, his stable-fellow.?Then Forward-Ho, then a chestnut weed,?Skysail, slight, with a turn of speed.?The neat Gavotte under black and coral,?Then the Mutineer, Lord Leybourne's sorrel,?Natuna mincing, Syringa sidling,?Stormalong fighting to break his bridling,?Thunderbolt dancing with raw nerves quick,?Trying a savage at Bitter Dick.?The Ranger (winner three years before),?Now old, but ready for one try more;?Hadrian; Thankful; the stable-cronies,?Peterkinooks and Dear Adonis;?The flashing Rocket, with taking action;?Exception, backed by the Tencombe faction;?Old Sir Francis and young King Tony,?Culverin striding from great hips bony.
At this, he rode through the open gate?Into the course to try his fate.
He heard a roar from a moving crowd;?Right Royal kindled and cried aloud.?There was the course, stand, rail and pen,?Peopled with seventy thousand men;?Seventy thousand faces staring,?Carriages parked, a brass band blaring:?Over the stand the flags in billows?Bent their poles like the wands of willows.?All men there seemed trying to bawl,?Yet a few great voices topped them all:?"I back the field! I back the field!"
Right Royal trembled with pride and squealed.
Charles Cothill smiled with relief to find?This roaring crowd to his horse's mind.
He passed the stand where his lady stood,?His nerves were tense to the multitude;?His blood beat hard and his eyes grew dim?As he knew that some were cheering him.?Then, as he turned, at his pace's end?There came a roar as when floods descend.?All down the straight from the crowded stands?Came the yells of voices and clap of hands,?For with bright bay beauty that shone like flame?The favourite horse Sir Lopez came.
His beautiful hips and splendid shoulders?And power of stride moved all beholders,?Moved non-bettors to try to bet?On that favourite horse not beaten yet.?With glory of power and speed he strode?To a sea of cheering that moved and flowed?And followed and heaped and burst like storm?From the joy of men in the perfect form;?Cheers followed his path both sides the course.
Charles Cothill sighed when he saw that horse.
The cheering died, then a burst of clapping?Met Soyland's coming all bright from strapping,?A big dark brown who was booted thick?Lest one of the jumps should make him click.?He moved very big, he'd a head like a fiddle,?He seemed all ends without any middle,?But ill as he looked, that outcast racer?Was a rare good horse and a perfect chaser.?Then The Ghost came on, then Meringue, the bay,?Then proud Grey Glory, the dapple-grey;?The splendid grey brought a burst of cheers.?Then Cimmeroon, who had tried for years?And had thrice been placed and had once been fourth,?Came trying again the proverb's worth.
Then again, like a wave as it runs a pier,?On and on, unbroken, there came a cheer?As Monkery, black as a collier-barge,?Trod sideways, bickering, taking charge.?Cross-Molin, from the Blowbury, followed,?Lucky Shot skipped, Coranto wallowed,?Then Counter Vair, the declared-to-win,?Stable-fellow of Cross-Molin;?Culverin last, with Cannonade,?Formed rearguard to the grand parade.
And now, as they turned to go to post,?The Skysail calfishly barged The Ghost,?The Ghost lashed out with a bitter knock?On the tender muscle of Skysail's hock,?And Skysail's hope of that splendid hour?Was cut off short like a summer flower.?From the cantering crowd he limped apart?Back to the Paddock and did not start.
As they cantered down, Charles Cothill's mind?Was filled with joy that his horse went kind;?He showed no sulks, no sloth, no fear,?But leant on his rein and pricked his ear.?They lined themselves at the Post to start,?Charles took his place with a thumping heart.
Excitement running in waves