A very cheery bachelor was Bobby Fraser, and a
tremendous favourite wherever he went. He was a wonderful organizer,
and he invariably had a hand in anything of an entertaining nature
that was going forward.
He had just brought her tea, and was waiting beside her while she
drank it. Lady Bassett had left the carriage for the paddock, and
Muriel sat alone.
Had she had anything on the last race, he wanted to know? Muriel had
not. He had, and was practically ruined in consequence--a calamity
which in no way seemed to affect his spirits.
"Who would have expected a rank outsider like that to walk over the
course? Ought to have been disqualified for sheer cheek. Reminds me
of a chap I once knew--forget his name--Nick something or other--who
entered at the last minute for the Great Mogul's Cup at Sharapura. Did
it for a bet, they said. It's years ago now. The horse was a perfect
brute--all bone and no flesh--with a temper like the foul fiend and
no points whatever--looked a regular crock at starting. But he romped
home on three legs, notwithstanding, with his jockey clinging to him
like an inspired monkey. It was the only race he ever won. Every one
put it down to black magic or personal magnetism on the part of his
rider. Same thing, I believe. He was the sort of chap who always comes
out on top.
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