"My mare is the favourite, Juggins!" pleaded Mr Bhosh. "By defeating her you will land yourself in the bad odour of the _oi polloi_. Have you considered that, Juggins?" Juggins's only reply was to administer more whip-smacks, but Chunder Bindabun persevered. "Consider my hard case, Juggins! If I am beaten, I lose both a _placens uxor_ and the pot of money. If, on the other hand, I come in first at the head of the winning pole I promise to share my entire fortune with you!" Upon this, the kind-hearted and venial equestrian relented, warmly protesting that he would rather be a _proxime accessit_ and second fiddle than deprive another human being of all his earthly felicity, and accordingly he reined in his impetuous courser with such consummate skill that _Milky Way_ forged ahead by the length of a nose. Thus they galloped past the Grand Stand, and, as Mr Bhosh gazed upwards and descried the elegant form of the Princess Petunia standing upon the topmost roof, he was so exalted with jubilation that he elevated himself in his stirrups; and waving his cap in a chivalrous salute, cried out: "Hip-hip-hip! I am ramping in!" "Then," I hear the reader exclaim, "it is all over, and _Milky Way_ is victorious." Please, my honble friend, do not be so premature! I have not _said_ that the race was over. There are still some yards to the judge's bench, and it is always on the racing cards that _Poojah_ may prove the winner after all. Such inquisitive curiosity shall be duly satisfied in the next chapter, which is also the last. CHAPTER XIV A GRAND FINISH Happy Aurora is a happy Aurora! Hip, Hip, Hip, Hip, Hurrah! Hurrah! _Dr Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong)._ On the summit of the Grand Stand might have been observed groups of spectators eagerly awaiting the finish. Conspicuous amongst them were Princess Petunia (most sumptuously attired) and her parent, Merchant-prince Jones; and close by Duke and Duchess Dickinson, following the classic contest through binocular glasses. "_Poojah_ will prove to be the winner!... No, it is _Milky Way_!... They are neck or nothing! It will be a deceased heat!" exclaimed the excited populaces. And the beauteous Petunia was as if seated upon the spike of suspense, since Mr Bhosh's success was a _sine quâ non_ to their union. Suddenly came the glad shout: "The Favourite takes the cake with a canter!" and Duchess Dickinson became pallid with anguish, for, rich as she was, she could ill afford to become the loser of a cool million. The shout was strictly veracious, for Mr Bhosh was ruling the roast by half-a-head, and _Poojah_ was correspondingly behind. "_Macte virtute!_" cried Princess Petunia, in the silvery tones of a highly-bred bell, while she violently agitated her sun-umbrella: "O my beloved Bindabun, do not fall behind at eleven o'clock!"