"Tonight he must win me another!" said Barnabas, and swung himself
into the saddle. "And this will be a much harder and crueller race
than he ran before or will ever run again, Martin, I hope. Pray what,
time is it?"
"Nigh on to 'alf-past eight, sir."
"So late!" said Barnabas, grim-lipped and frowning as he settled his
feet in the stirrups. "Now--give him his head there--stay! Martin,
have you a brace of pistols?"
"Pistols! Why yes, sir, but--"
"Lend them to me."
Forthwith the pistols were brought, somewhat clumsy weapons, but
serviceable none the less.
"They're loaded, sir!" said Martin as he handed them up.
"Good!" nodded Barnabas, and slipping one into either pocket,
gathered up his reins.
"You'll not be back tonight, sir?"
"Not tonight, Martin."
"Good night, sir."
"Good night, Martin."
"Are you ready, sir?"
"Quite ready, Martin."
"Then--stand away there!"
Obediently the stable-boys leapt aside, freeing "The Terror's" proud
head, who snorted, reared, and plunged out through the open doorway,
swung off sharp to his right and thundered away down the echoing
street.
And thus "The Terror" set out on his second race, which was to be a
very hard, cruel race, since it was to be run against no four-legged
opponent, no thing of flesh and blood and nerves, but against the
sure-moving, relentless fingers of Natty Bell's great, silver watch.