There are now five in front -- Sponge, Spraggon, Hangallows, Boville, and another; and already the pace begins to tell. It wasn’t possible to run it at the rate they started. Spraggon makes a desperate effort to get the lead; and Sponge, seeing Boville handy, pulls his horse, and lets the light-weight make play over a rough, heavy fallow with the chestnut. Jack spurs and flogs, and grins and foams at the mouth. Thus they get half round the oval course. They are now directly in front of the hill, and the spectators gaze with intense anxiety; now vociferating the name of this horse, now of that; now shouting ‘Red jacket!’ now ‘White!’ while the blind fiddler perseveres with the old melody of ‘The Devil among the Tailors.’

‘Now they come to the brook!’ exclaims Leather, who has been over the ground; and as he speaks, Lucy distinctly sees Mr Sponge’s gather and effort to clear it; and -- oh, horror! -- the horse falls -- he’s down -- no, he’s up! -- and her lover’s in his seat again; and she flatters herself it was her sherry that saved him. Splash! -- a horse and rider duck under; three get over; two go in; now another clears it, and the rest turn tail.

What splashing and screaming, and whipping and spurring, and how hopeless the chance of any of them to recover their lost ground. The race is now clearly between five. Now for the wall! It’s five feet high, built of heavy blocks, and strong in the staked-out part. As he nears it, Jack sits well back, getting Daddy Longlegs well by the head, and giving him a refresher with the whip. It is Jack’s last move! His horse comes, neck and crop, over, rolling Jack up like a ball of worsted on the far side. At the same moment, Multum in Parvo goes at it full tilt; and not rising an inch, sends Captain Boville flying one way, his saddle another, himself a third, and the stones all ways. Mr Sponge then slips through, closely followed by Hangallows and a jockey in yellow, with a tail of three after them. They then put on all the steam they can raise over the twenty-acre pasture that follows.

The white! -- the red! -- the yaller! The red! -- the white! -- the yaller! and anybody’s race! A sheet would cover them! -- crack! whack! crack! how they flog! Hercules springs at the sound.

Many of the excited spectators begin hallooing, and straddling, and working their arms as if their gestures and vociferations would assist the race. Lord Scamperdale stands transfixed. He is staring through his silver spectacles at the awkwardly lying ball that represents poor Spraggon.

‘By Heavens!’ exclaims he, in an undertone to himself, ‘I believe he’s killed!’ And thereupon he swung down the stand-stairs, rushed to his horse, and clasping spurs to his sides, struck across the country to the spot.

Long before he got there the increased uproar of the spectators announced the final struggle; and looking over his shoulder, he saw white jacket hugging his horse home, closely followed by red, and shooting past the winning-post.

‘Dash that Mr Sponge!’ growled his lordship, as the cheers of the winners closed the scene.

‘The brute’s won, in spite of him!’ gasped Buckram, turning deadly pale at the sight.