Already people begin to shout “Haphazard wins”; and the General is hoarse with excitement. “Charlie wins!” he exclaims, his lace purple, and the ends of his blue-and-orange handkerchief floating on the breeze. “Charlie wins! I tell you. Look how he’s coming up. Zounds! don’t contradict _me_, sir!” he roars out to the intense dismay of his next neighbour, a meek old gentleman, who has only come to the steeple-chase in order that he may write an account of it for a magazine, and who shrinks from the General as from a raving madman. “Now, Captain Rocket,” shouts the multitude, as if that unmoved man would attend to anything but the business in hand. They reach the last fence neck-and-neck, Haphazard landing slightly in advance. “Kettering wins!” “_Blast_ him!” hisses D’Orville between his teeth, turning white as a sheet He stands to lose eighteen hundred by Haphazard alone, and we question whether, on reliable security, the Major could raise eighteen-pence. Nevertheless, he turns the next instant to Blanche, with a quiet, unmoved smile, to congratulate her on her cousin’s probable success. “If he can only ‘finish,’ Miss Kettering, he can’t lose,” says the speculator; but he still trusts that “if” may save him the price of his commission. What a moment for Charlie! Hot, breathless, and nearly exhausted, his brain reeling with the shouts of the populace, and the wild excitement of the struggle, one idea is uppermost in his mind--if man and horse can do it, _win he will_. Steadily has he ridden four long miles, taking the greatest pains with his horse, and restraining his own eagerness to be in front, as well as that of the gallant animal. He has kept his eye fixed on Captain Rocket, and regulated his every movement by that celebrated performer. And now he is drawing slightly in advance of him, and one hundred yards more will complete his triumph. Yet, inexperienced as he is, he cannot but feel that Haphazard is no longer the elastic, eager goer whom he has been regulating so carefully, and the truth shoots across him that his horse is beat. Well, he ought to last another hundred yards. See, the double flags are waving before him, and the shouts of his own name fall dully upon his ear. He hears Captain Rocket’s whip at work, and is not aware how that judicious artist is merely plying it against his own boot to flurry the young one. Charlie begins to flog. “Sit _still_!” shouts Frank Hardingstone from the stand. Charlie works arms and legs like a windmill, upsets his horse, who would win if he were but let alone--Sober John shows his great ugly head alongside. Haphazard changes his leg--Major D’Orville draws a long breath of relief--Captain Rocket, with a grim smile, and one fierce stab with his spurs, glides slightly in advance--and Haphazard is beaten on the post by half a length, Lady Lavender a bad third, and the rest nowhere! * * * * *