“Very well, that makes eight. We put eight pieces of paper in the hat. Six of them have got the names of the horses on, the other two are blank. Then we each pull out one. Whoever draws the name of the horse that wins takes five rupees, the holder of the second two, and the third saves his stake. You shall hold the stakes, Mrs. Hunter. We have all confidence in you.” The slips were drawn. “My horse is Bruce,” Isobel said. “There he is, Miss Hannay,” Wilson, who had drawn a blank, said, as a horse whose rider had a straw colored jacket and cap came cantering along the course. “This is a race for country horses--owners up. That means ridden by their owners. That is Pearson of the 13th Native Cavalry. He brought the horse over from Lucknow.” “What chance has he?” “I have not the least idea, Miss Hannay. I did not hear any betting on this race at all.” “That is a nice horse, uncle,” Isobel said, as one with a rider in black jacket, with red cap, came past. “That is Delhi. Yes, it has good action.” “That is mine,” the eldest Miss Hunter said. “The rider is a good looking young fellow,” the Doctor said, “and is perfectly conscious of it himself. Who is he, Wilson? I don’t know him.” “He is a civilian. Belongs to the public works, I think.” The other horses now came along, and after short preliminary canters the start was made. To Isobel’s disappointment her horse was never in the race, which Delhi looked like winning until near the post, when a rather common looking horse, which had been lying a short distance behind him, came up with a rush and won by a length. “I don’t call that fair,” Miss Hunter said, “when the other was first all along. I call that a mean way of winning, don’t you, father?” “Well, no, my dear. It was easy to see for the last quarter of a mile that the other was making what is called ‘a waiting race’ of it, and was only biding his time. There is nothing unfair in that, I fancy Delhi might have won if he had had a better jockey. His rider never really called upon him till it was too late. He was so thoroughly satisfied with himself and his position in the race that he was taken completely by surprise when Moonshee came suddenly up to him.” “Well, I think it is very hard upon Delhi, father, after keeping ahead all the way and going so nicely. I think everyone ought to do their best from the first.” “I fancy you are thinking, Miss Hunter,” the Doctor said, “quite as much that it is hard on you being beaten after your hopes had been raised, as it is upon the horse.” “Perhaps I am, Doctor,” she admitted. “I think it is much harder on me,” Isobel said. “You have had the satisfaction of thinking all along that your horse was going to win, while mine never gave me the least bit of hope.” “The proper expression, Miss Hannay, is, your horse never flattered you.” “Then I think it is a very silly expression, Mr. Wilson, because I don’t see that flattery has anything to do with it.”