AT four o’clock, the sky, which had been overcast, cleared up, the sea grew calm, and the ship was so steady, one might almost have thought oneself on terra firma—this gave the passengers the idea of getting up races. Epsom turf could not have afforded a better coursing-ground, and as for horses, they were well replaced by pure Scotchmen, as good as any “Gladiator,” or “La Touque.” The news soon spread, sportsmen immediately hurried to the field. An Englishman, the Hon. J. MacCarthy, was appointed commissioner, and the competitors presented themselves without delay. They were half a dozen sailors, kind of centaurs, man and horse at the same time, all ready to try for the prize.
The two boulevards formed the race-course, the runners were to go three times round the ship, thus making a course of about 1300 yards, which was quite enough. Soon the galleries were invaded by crowds of spectators, all armed with opera-glasses. Some of them had hoisted the “green sail,” no doubt to shelter themselves from the spray of the Atlantic. Carriages were missing, I must confess, but not the rank, where they might have ranged in file. Ladies in gay costumes were hurrying on to the upper-decks; the scene was charming.
Fabian, Captain Corsican, Dr. Pitferge and I had taken our places on the poop, which was what might be called the centre of action. Here the real gentlemen riders were assembled; in front of us was the starting and winning post. Betting soon began with a true British animation. Considerable sums of money were staked, but only from the appearance of the racers, whose qualifications had not as yet been inscribed in the “stud-book.” It was not without uneasiness that I saw Harry Drake interfering in the preparations with his usual audacity, discussing, disputing, and settling affairs in a tone which admitted of no reply. Happily, although Fabian had risked some pounds in the race, he appeared quite indifferent to the noise; he kept himself aloof from the others, and it was quite evident his thoughts were far off.
Among the racers who offered themselves, two particularly attracted the public attention. Wilmore, a small, thin, wiry Scotchman, with a broad chest and sharp eyes, was one of the favourites; the other, an Irishman named O’Kelly, a tall, supple fellow, balanced the chance with Wilmore, in the eyes of connoisseurs. Three to one was asked on him, and for myself partaking the general infatuation I was going to risk a few dollars on him, when the Doctor said to me,—
“Choose the little one; believe me, the tall one is no go.”
“What do you say?”
“I say,” replied the Doctor, “that the tall one is not genuine; he may have a certain amount of speed, but he has no bottom. The little one, on the contrary, is of pure Scotch race; look how straight his body is on his legs, and how broad and pliant his chest is; he is a man who will lead more than once in the race. Bet on him, I tell you; you won’t regret it.”
I took the learned doctor’s advice, and bet on Wilmore; as to the other four, they were not even discussed.
They drew for places; chance favoured the Irishman, who had the rope-side; the six runners were placed along the line, bounded by the posts, so that there was no unfair start to be feared.
The commissioner gave the signal, and the departure was hailed by a loud hurrah. It was soon evident that Wilmore and O’Kelly were professional runners; without taking any notice of their rivals, who passed them breathless, they ran with their bodies thrown slightly forward, hands very erect, arms tightly pressed against their chests, and holding their fists firmly in front.
In the second round O’Kelly and Wilmore were in a line, having distanced their exhausted competitors. They obviously verified the Doctor’s saying,—
“It is not with the legs, but with the chest that one runs; ham-strings are good, but lungs are better.”
At the last turning but one the spectators again cheered their favourites. Cries and hurrahs broke out on all sides.
“The little one will win,” said Pitferge to me. “Look, he is not even panting, and his rival is breathless.”
Wilmore indeed looked calm and pale, whilst O’Kelly was steaming like a damp hay-stack; he was “pumped out,” to use a sportsman’s slang expression, but both of them kept the same line. At last they passed the upper decks; the hatchway of the engine-rooms, the winning-post.
“Hurrah! hurrah! for Wilmore,” cried some.
“Hurrah! for O’Kelly,” chimed in others.
“Wilmore has won.”
“No, they are together.”
The truth was Wilmore had won, but by hardly half a head so the Honourable MacCarthy decided. However, the discussion continued, and even came to words. The partisans of the Irishman, and particularly Harry Drake, maintained that it was a “dead heat,” and that they ought to go again. But at this moment, urged by an irresistible impulse, Fabian went up to Harry Drake, and said to him in a cold tone,—
“You are wrong, sir, the winner was the Scotch sailor.”
“What do you say?” he asked, in a threatening tone.
“I say you are wrong,” answered Fabian quietly.
“Undoubtedly,” retorted Drake, “because you bet on Wilmore.”
“I was for O’Kelly, like yourself; I lost, and I have paid.”
“Sir,” cried Drake, “do you pretend to teach me?—”
But he did not finish his sentence, for Captain Corsican had interposed between him and Fabian, with the intention of taking up the quarrel. He treated Drake with supreme contempt, but evidently Drake would not pick a quarrel with him; so when Corsican had finished, he crossed his arms, and addressing himself to Fabian,—
“This gentleman,” said he, with an evil smile, “this gentleman wants some one to fight his battles for him.”
Fabian grew pale, he would have sprung at Drake, but I held him back, and the scoundrel’s companions dragged him away; not, however, before he had cast a look of hatred at his enemy.
Captain Corsican and I went below with Fabian, who contented himself by saying, “The first opportunity I have, I will box that impudent fellow’s ears.”