On the first day of the Ghoriah meeting _Thurinda_ was hopelessly ridden out by a native jockey, to whose care Hordene had at the last moment been compelled to confide her. "You forsaken idiot!" said he, "what made you begin riding as soon as you were clear? She had everything safe, if you'd only left her alone. You rode her out before the home turn, you hog!" "What could I do?" said the jockey sullenly. "I was pressed by another horse." "Whose 'other horse'? There were twenty yards of daylight between you and the ruck. If you'd kept her there even then 'twouldn't ha' mattered. But you rode her out--you rode her out!" "There was another horse and he pressed me to the end, and when I looked round he was no longer there." Let us, in charity, draw a veil over Hordene's language at this point. "Goodness knows whether she'll be fit to pull out again for the last event. D----n you and your other horses! I wish I'd broken your neck before letting you get up!" _Thurinda_ was done to a turn, and it seemed a cruelty to ask her to run again in the last race of the day. Hordene rode this time, and was careful to keep the mare within herself at the outset. Once more _Thurinda_ left her field--with one exception--a grey horse that hung upon her flanks and could not be shaken off. The mare was done, and refused to answer the call upon her. She tried hopelessly in the straight and was caught and passed by her old enemy, _River of Years_--the chestnut of Kurnaul. "You rode well--like a native, Hordene," was the unflattering comment. "The mare was ridden out before _River of Years_." "But the grey," began Hordene, and then ceased, for he knew that there was no grey in the race. _Blue Point_ and _Diamond Dust_, the only greys at the meeting, were running in the Arab Handicap.