"Oh, we've got to run him, sir," he said. "We've got to run him and do our best. That there is the faintest chance of his winning Sir George does not believe for a moment. Still, if you refuse to take a hand, I must do as I am told, that's all. Perhaps you will be at Mirst Park yourself on the first day." "Of course. I am taking one or two of our crocks there. But I must be off, Joe." The conversation haunted Fielden. It was with him night and day till the first day of the Mirst Park meeting arrived. He had seen little or nothing of Phillips for some time, but that morning he had received a telegram asking him to meet Phillips in London early in the afternoon. He gathered from the message that Phillips had something important to say and so he decided to go to town. It would be easy to get back in time to see the end of the afternoon's sport. None of the Haredale Park party was over. Nor had Copley put in an appearance, and Fielden had his time almost to himself. He ran against Raffle in the paddock half an hour or so before the race for the Champion Stakes. There was a queer grin on the old man's face as he suggested that Fielden should go and have a look at the horse. They found the Blenheim colt in his stable looking in much better condition than Fielden had expected. "He looks splendid," he said. "Ah, he is a bonny colt," Raffle exclaimed with a look of affection in his eyes. "I never saw a better-tempered horse or a more genuine trier. He'll go every inch of the way, and I shouldn't be surprised if--but we won't talk about that." Raffle refused to say more. Moreover, he had the colt to look to, for the race was close at hand; so Fielden made his way into the stand, where he could command a good view. Not that he had any interest in the race. It was a foregone conclusion that the Blenheim colt would be beaten and in only one or two instances did he carry any public money. A moment or two later Raffle took up a position by Fielden's side. "The colt moves well," said Fielden, looking through his glasses, "and I don't see much signs of staleness, either. Upon my word, if I had any money to spare I'd back him for a trifle myself." "You might do worse," Raffle chuckled. CHAPTER XXXIII THE FIVE BASKETS There was the usual roar from the ring which began to die down as the horses were seen fidgeting at the post. Then a murmur arose from the spectators, and the dancing kaleidoscope of colours broke into a thin stream as the field got away to a capital start. They came along all in a cluster round the bend of the course till, presently, there was a hoarse shout from the onlookers and the name of the Blenheim colt was on every lip. The horse hung for a moment or two coming up the straight, then seemed to recover himself and, moving along with a beautifully free and easy stride, caught the leaders a dozen lengths from home and slipped past the post a winner by a short head.