Gay Lawless

"He's won all right," she said; "he is having his horse cooled out." Then she had time to remember the sneer in Chris's voice.

"Of course I know you're mad on steeple-chasing," she said, tilting her nose in the air, "but you needn't be bigoted; it's not the only sport, and anyhow you can't deny that Mr. Mackrell can drive; almost as well as you can ride," she concluded generously.

Chris bowed.

"Carlton Mackrell is a brilliant whip," he agreed, though he made a mental note that it was about the only thing Mackrell could do. "Let's go and congratulate him."

They left the members' enclosure, and made their way by the side of the track to the stables, where they found Carlton Mackrell talking to one of his swipes. He came to meet them, and his dark face showed the pleasure he felt at Gay Lawless' congratulations.

"Thank you," he said, "I expected to win my heat. Did you back my horse?"

"Of course," cried the girl. "Evidently others besides you expected Billy Q. to win, for everyone was backing him. Although I got in early, I had to lay five to two on, to five shillings," she laughed. "It doesn't take very much money to paralyse the market, does it?"

Carlton Mackrell shook his head.

"No," he said, "the sight of gold creates a panic, and an owner does not dare back his horse personally, unless he's prepared to lay odds on what very often is not an even money chance. The ring think the business is inspired, you know," he laughed, "and begin to pinch the price at once. However, as I don't bet, it doesn't affect me, though I like my friends to help themselves whenever I run anything."

He turned to Chris Hannen, who was attentively studying a big bay horse with the eye of a connoisseur. "You don't often come trotting, do you?" he asked.

The two men had known each other for years, but the fact that they both admired Gay Lawless had not strengthened their friendship very considerably. Still both were sportsmen, and, appreciated each other's talents in their respective branches with a genuineness not met with outside sporting circles.

"No," Chris replied, glancing at Gay from the corner of a twinkling eye, "in fact, this is my first appearance on a track."

"And your last, I should imagine. You don't look supremely happy," and Mackrell laughed.

"That's a poor compliment to me, Mr. Mackrell," Gay said mischievously; "you forget Mr. Hannen is on escort duty. It's quite by chance he is here, but, as you know, I'm stopping at Flytton for a few days, and Mr. Hannen walked over from Epsom--'wasting' he calls it."

She looked reproachfully at Chris. "There's one advantage about trotting, anyhow--you haven't to be perpetually worrying about your weight, or live on lemons, and tea, and gin!" She made a little face. "You must carry 10 stones 10 lbs. in a sulky, mustn't you--that's the minimum?"

"Yes, quite right," Mackrell assented, "that enables most men to drive themselves, though a lot employ professionals. I can't see any fun in the game, unless one drives one's own horses. Let's go back, and watch the next heat. It's a handicap, you know, one for what the horse owners call "pigs," he explained. Then his face grew serious. "It's a pity some good men don't take up trotting; there's no prettier sport (unconsciously echoing Gay's opinion), and its very much maligned because people don't understand it, and think that because it's trotting, it must necessarily be all crooked. I don't think there's much more finessing at it than in horse-racing, if the truth were known, do you, Hannen?"