Everything went well with his preparation; the horse was as sound as a bell, and under Brant's tuition became quiet and docile. The Rascal liked Picton, he and his rider were on excellent terms, they knew exactly how they felt toward each other. A week before the Aintree meeting Dick Langford came to Haverton. He was surprised when he saw the improvement in The Rascal, grew enthusiastic as he watched Picton ride him over the big fences. "I'd no idea he could jump like that!" exclaimed Dick. "I had when I won on him at Torquay," said Picton. "Do you think he's a chance in the National?" Dick said to the trainer. "He has, Mr. Langford, a ripping chance. I can't pick out anything to beat him, and he's got such a nice weight, only ten stone; he'll gallop them all to a standstill. And as for fencing, he'll fly Beecher's Brook like a bird." Neither Rita nor Picton, nor their many friends who saw the race, will ever forget that memorable Grand National. What an awful day it was! The March wind howled and whistled over the course, biting and stinging, cutting the face almost like a lash. Then sleet fell, followed by a whirling snowstorm, which had not abated when the horses went out. The course was heavy, dangerously slippery, but for all that not bad going. It was all against the top weights. The Rascal lashed out as he felt the stinging half-frozen particles whipping his skin. He put back his ears, lowered his head, and took a lot of persuading before he faced the blast. Most of the horses protested in the same way. Then the sun gleamed out, the snow ceased, and for a few minutes it was bright and clear. They were off, twenty of them, and a glorious sight it was. Rita stood with Captain Ben, Sir Robert, and Dick. They had an excellent view of the course; had it been clearer they would have seen the whole race. When the horses had gone a little over a mile, snow fell again, the sun disappeared in the gloom, the light became bad. Picton could hardly see the jumps, so blinding was the storm; but The Rascal saw them and despite slipping, and an occasional stumble, cleared them. Once he rapped hard; this roused him and for the remainder of the journey he did not make a mistake. It was an extraordinary race. Horse after horse came down, until at the last two jumps only three were left in. Another fell, then Mortimer came down at the last obstacle, and The Rascal came in alone, being the only one to finish the course. It was a day of triumph for Picton and his friends. A big stake was landed, a big double, the St. Leger and the Grand National won for the famous saffron colors.