But it was the immaculate Dawson who suffered the greatest shock. He had just got his loot into the stirrup when he felt himself picked up like a child and deposited in the mud. And mounted on _his_ chestnut was the man in ratcatcher. "Keep back—all of you." The tall, spare figure rose in the saddle and dominated the scene. "It’s a one-man job." Then he swung the chestnut round, gave him one rib-binder, and followed the bolting black. "Hi! you, sir!" spluttered Dawson, shaking a fist at the retreating figure. "That’s my horse." But no one paid the smallest attention to the aggrieved youth; motionless and intent, they were staring at the two galloping horses. They saw the man swinging left-handed, and for a moment they failed to realize his object. "What’s he doing? What’s he doing?" David Dawlish was jumping up and down in his excitement. "He’ll never catch her like that." "He will," roared the cavalryman. "Oh, lovely, lovely—look at that recovery, sir—I ask you, look at it! Don’t you see his game, man?" He turned to the secretary. "He’s coming up between her and the quarry, and he’ll ride her off. If he came up straight behind, nothing could save ’em. It’s too close." Fascinated, the field watched the grim race—helpless, unable to do anything but sit and look on. The man in ratcatcher had been right, and they knew it, when he had called it a one-man job. A crowd of galloping horses would have maddened the black to frenzy. And as for the two principal performers, they were perhaps the coolest of all. For a few agonizing seconds, when the girl first realized that Nigger was bolting, she panicked; then, being a thoroughbred herself, she pulled herself together and tried to stop him. But he was away with her—away with her properly; and it was just as she realized it, with a sickening feeling of helplessness, that a strong, ringing voice came clearly from behind her left shoulder. "Drop your near rein, Molly; put both hands on your off, and pull—girl—pull! I’m coming." She heard the thud of his horse behind her, and the black spurted again. But the chestnut crept up till it was level with her girths—till the two horses were neck and neck. "Pull, darling, pull!" With a wild thrill she heard his voice low and tense beside her; regardless of everything, she stole one look at his steady eyes, which flashed a message of confidence back. "Pull—pull, on that off rein." She felt the chestnut hard against her legs, boring into her as the man, exerting every ounce of his strength, started to ride her off.