Rujub, the Juggler

“What is a sweepstake, uncle?”

There was a general laugh.

“Well, my dear, we each put in a rupee. There are six of us, and there are Wilson and the Doctor. You will go in, Doctor, won’t you?”

“Yes; I don’t mind throwing away a rupee, Major.”

“Very well, that makes eight. We put eight pieces of paper in the hat. Six of them have got the names of the horses on, the other two are blank. Then we each pull out one. Whoever draws the name of the horse that wins takes five rupees, the holder of the second two, and the third saves his stake. You shall hold the stakes, Mrs. Hunter. We have all confidence in you.”

The slips were drawn.

“My horse is Bruce,” Isobel said.

“There he is, Miss Hannay,” Wilson, who had drawn a blank, said, as a horse whose rider had a straw colored jacket and cap came cantering along the course. “This is a race for country horses—owners up. That means ridden by their owners. That is Pearson of the 13th Native Cavalry. He brought the horse over from Lucknow.”

“What chance has he?”

“I have not the least idea, Miss Hannay. I did not hear any betting on this race at all.”

“That is a nice horse, uncle,” Isobel said, as one with a rider in black jacket, with red cap, came past.

“That is Delhi. Yes, it has good action.”

“That is mine,” the eldest Miss Hunter said.

“The rider is a good looking young fellow,” the Doctor said, “and is perfectly conscious of it himself. Who is he, Wilson? I don’t know him.”

“He is a civilian. Belongs to the public works, I think.”

The other horses now came along, and after short preliminary canters the start was made. To Isobel’s disappointment her horse was never in the race, which Delhi looked like winning until near the post, when a rather common looking horse, which had been lying a short distance behind him, came up with a rush and won by a length.

“I don’t call that fair,” Miss Hunter said, “when the other was first all along. I call that a mean way of winning, don’t you, father?”

“Well, no, my dear. It was easy to see for the last quarter of a mile that the other was making what is called ‘a waiting race’ of it, and was only biding his time. There is nothing unfair in that, I fancy Delhi might have won if he had had a better jockey. His rider never really called upon him till it was too late. He was so thoroughly satisfied with himself and his position in the race that he was taken completely by surprise when Moonshee came suddenly up to him.”

“Well, I think it is very hard upon Delhi, father, after keeping ahead all the way and going so nicely. I think everyone ought to do their best from the first.”

“I fancy you are thinking, Miss Hunter,” the Doctor said, “quite as much that it is hard on you being beaten after your hopes had been raised, as it is upon the horse.”

“Perhaps I am, Doctor,” she admitted.

“I think it is much harder on me,” Isobel said. “You have had the satisfaction of thinking all along that your horse was going to win, while mine never gave me the least bit of hope.”

“The proper expression, Miss Hannay, is, your horse never flattered you.”

“Then I think it is a very silly expression, Mr. Wilson, because I don’t see that flattery has anything to do with it.”

“Ah, here is Bathurst,” the Doctor said. “Where have you been, Bathurst? You slipped away from me just now.”

“I’ve just been talking to the Commissioner, Doctor. I have been trying to get him to see—”

“Why, you don’t mean to say,” the Doctor broke in, “that you have been trying to cram your theories down his throat on a racecourse?”

“It was before the race began,” Bathurst said, “and I don’t think the Commissioner has any more interest in racing than I have.”

“Not in racing,” the Doctor agreed, “but I expect he has an interest in enjoying himself generally, which is a thing you don’t seem to have the most remote idea of. Here we are just getting up a sweepstake for the next race; hand over a rupee and try to get up an interest in it. Do try and forget your work till the race is over. I have brought you here to do you good. I regard you as my patient, and I give you my medical orders that you are to enjoy yourself.”

Bathurst laughed.

“I am enjoying myself in my way, Doctor.”

“Who is that very pretty woman standing up in the next carriage but one?” Isobel asked.

“She comes from an out station,” the Doctor repeated; “she is the wife of the Collector there, but I think she likes Cawnpore better than Boorgum; her name is Rose.”

“Is that her husband talking to her?”

“No; that is a man in the Artillery here, I think.”

“Yes,” the Major said, “that is Harrowby, a good looking fellow, and quite a ladies’ man.”

“Do you mean a man ladies like, uncle, or who likes the society of ladies?”

“Both in his case, I should fancy,” the Major said; “I believe he is considered one of the best looking men in the service.”

“I don’t see why he should be liked for that,” Isobel said. “As far as I have seen, good looking men are not so pleasant as others. I suppose it is because they are conscious of their own good looks, and therefore do not take the trouble of being amusing. We had one very good looking man on board ship, and he was the dullest man to talk to on board. No, Doctor, I won’t have any names mentioned, but I am right, am I not?”

“He was a dull specimen, certainly,” the Doctor said, “but I think you are a little too sweeping.”

“I don’t mean all good looking men, of course, but men who what I call go in for being good looking. I don’t know whether you know what I mean. What are you smiling at, Mr. Wilson?”

“I was thinking of two or three men I know to whom your description applies, Miss Hannay; but I must be going—they are just going to start the next race, and mine is the one after, so I must go and get ready. You wish me success, don’t you?”

“I wish you all the success you deserve. I can’t say more than that, can I?”

“I am afraid that is saying very little,” he laughed. “I don’t expect to win, but I do hope I shall beat Richards, because he is so cock sure he will beat me.”

This wish was not gratified. The first and second horses made a close race of it; behind them by ten or twelve lengths came the other horses in a clump, Wilson and Richards singling themselves out in the last hundred yards and making a desperate race for the third place, for which they made a dead heat, amid great laughter from their comrades.

“That is excellent,” Major Hannay said; “you won’t see anything more amusing than that today, girls. The third horse simply saved his stake, so that as they will of course divide, they will have paid twenty-five rupees each for the pleasure of riding, and the point which of their tats is the fastest remains unsettled.”

“Well, they beat a good many of them, Major Hannay,” Miss Hunter said; “so they did not do so badly after all.”

“Oh, no, they did not do so badly; but it will be a long time before they get over the chaff about their desperate struggle for the third place.”

The next two races attracted but slight attention from the occupants of the carriage. Most of their acquaintances in the station came up one after the other for a chat. There were many fresh introductions, and there was so much conversation and laughter that the girls had little time to attend to what was going on around them. Wilson and Richards both sauntered up after changing, and were the subject of much chaff as to their brilliant riding at the finish. Both were firm in the belief that the judge’s finding was wrong, and each maintained stoutly he had beaten the other by a good head.

The race for Arabs turned out a very exciting one; the Rajah of Bithoor’s horse was the favorite, on the strength of its performances elsewhere; but Prothero’s horse was also well supported, especially in the regiment, for the Adjutant was a first class rider, and was in great request at all the principal meetings in Oude and the Northwest Provinces, while it was known that the Rajah’s horse would be ridden by a native. The latter was dressed in strict racing costume, and had at the last races at Cawnpore won two or three cups for the Rajah.