Another hedge. A refusal. One--two--four--six--nine over somehow or another, and one down. Then a loud cheer, by no means pleasant for the fallen man; and "for the fun of the thing," as he said, Trevor began to back the grey mare known as White Lassie. "How can you be so foolish?" said Pratt. "So," said Trevor, laughing; and he doubled his stakes with another. "I believe we should be better off there on the knoll," said Pratt, pointing to the spot where the barouche was standing hemmed in by the crowd. And acting upon the suggestion, the two friends quitted the low, temporary stand, and managed to get a pretty good position on the little eminence, where they could see right down the valley with the horses running along its slope. But Pratt saw more than this; he noted that they were within half a dozen yards of the barouche where the ladies were standing on the seats, with eyes sparkling and parted lips, whilst close at hand were Barney, of the omnibus, and a couple of his intimates, demonstrative in their comments upon the race. Of the eleven horses that started, four had, in hunting parlance, come to grief; and now of the others only five seemed to be in the race. "Twenty pounds fooled away, Dick," said Pratt, in a whisper, as they now made out, the last of the five, the white cap and pale blue shirt of the rider of White Lassie. "Be quiet, raven," was the calm reply; "the race is not won yet. Look at that." _That_ was the downfall of the leading horse at the next fence, the poor beast literally turning a somersault, and then getting up to stand shaking itself, as the other competitors got safely over; White Lassie, still last clearing the obstacle with ease. "Now comes the tug of war," said Trevor; and all eyes were strained in the direction now taken by the horses towards a tolerably wide brook running between stunted pollards; for this once passed, there was only a low fence, and a straight run in to the winning post. The betting on all sides was now fast and furious, Pratt biting his lips with vexation as, in spite of the distance his favourite was behind, Trevor kept making fresh engagements. "He'll lose as much in ten minutes as would have kept me for a year," Pratt grumbled to himself; and then he was all eyes for the race, as, on reaching the brook, the leading horse stopped short and shot his rider right into the middle. The next horse leaped short, and came into the brook with his hoofs pawing the crumbling bank, the rider having to crawl over his head, and help him ignominiously from his position. But long ere this, a great bay had cleared the brook easily, closely followed by White Lassie, whose rider now seemed to press her forward till she was not more than a length in the rear, the two horses racing hard for the last leap.