second of how very near he was to the
wind. The figures in his betting-book were to the tune of several
thousands, one way or another. If he won this morning it would be all
right, of course; if he lost--even Beauty, odd mixture of devil-may-care
and languor though he was, felt his lips grow, for the moment, hot and
cold by turns as he thought of that possible contingency.

The King looked in splendid condition; he knew well enough what was up
again, knew what was meant by that extra sedulous dressing-down, that
setting muzzle that had been buckled on him some nights previous, the
limitation put to his drink, the careful trial spins in the gray of the
mornings, the conclusive examination of his plates by a skillful hand;
he knew what was required of him, and a horse in nobler condition never
stepped out in body clothing, as he was ridden slowly down on to the
plains of Iffesheim. The Austrian Dragoon, a Count and a Chamberlain
likewise, who was to ride his only possible rival, the French horse
L'Etoile, pulled his tawny silken mustaches as he saw the great English
hero come up the course, and muttered to himself, "L'affaire est finie."
L'Etoile was a brilliant enough bay in his fashion, but Count Ruteroth
knew the measure of his pace and powers too thoroughly to expect him to
live against the strides of the Guards' gray.

"My beauty, won't you cut those German fellows down!" muttered Rake, the
enthusiast, in the saddling inclosure. "As for those fools what go agin
you, you'll put them in a hole, and no mistake. French horse, indeed!
Why, you'll spread-eagle all them Mossoos' and Meinherrs' cattle in a
brace of seconds--"

Rake's foe, the head groom, caught him up savagely.

"Won't you never learn decent breeding? When we wins we wins on the
quiet, and when we loses we loses as if we liked it; all that braying,
and flaunting, and boasting is only fit for cads. The 'oss is in tip-top
condition; let him show what he can do over furren ground."

"Lucky for him, then, that he hasn't got you across the pigskin; you'd
rope him, I believe, as soon as look at him, if it was made worth your
while," retorted Rake, in caustic wrath; his science of repartee chiefly
lay in a successful "plant," and he was here uncomfortably conscious
that his opponent was in the right of the argument, as he started
through the throng to put his master into the "shell" of the
Shire-famous scarlet and white.

"Tip-top condition, my boy--tip-top,