“Honesty compels me to state,” said Jack, in a more conciliatory voice than he had made use of hitherto, “that Nelly—Miss Montague, I mean—is rather fonder of you than of me; but still, as you say, fond enough of me not to prefer my rival openly in my presence.”

  “I don’t think you’re right,” said the student. “In fact, I know you are not; for she told me as much with her own lips. However, what you say makes it easier for us to come to an understanding. It is quite evident that as long as we show ourselves to be equally fond of her, neither of us can have the slightest hope of winning her.”

  “There’s some sense in that,” said the Lieutenant, reflectively; “but what do you propose?”

  “I propose that one of us stand out, to use your own expression. There is no alternative.”

  “But who is to stand out?” asked Jack.

  “Ah, that is the question!”

  “I can claim to having known her longest.”

  “I can claim to having loved her first.”

  Matters seemed to have come to a deadlock. Neither of the young men was in the least inclined to abdicate in favor of his rival.

  “Look here,” said the student, “let us decide the matter by lot.”

  This seemed fair, and was agreed to by both. A new difficulty arose, however. Both of them felt sentimental objections toward risking their angel upon such a paltry chance as the turn of a coin or the length of a straw. It was at this crisis that an inspiration came upon Lieutenant Hawthorne.

  “I’ll tell you how we will decide it,” he said. “You and I are both entered for our Derby sweep-stakes. If your horse beats mine, I give up my chance; if mine beats yours, you leave Miss Montague forever. Is it a bargain?”

  “I have only one stipulation to make,” said Sol. “It is ten days yet before the race will be run. During that time neither of us must attempt to take an unfair advantage of the other. We shall both agree not to press our suit until the matter is decided.”

  “Done!” said the soldier.

  “Done!” said Solomon.

  And they shook hands upon the agreement.

  I had, as I have already observed, no knowledge of the conversation which had taken place between my suitors. I may mention incidentally that during the course of it I was in the library, listening to Tennyson, read aloud in the deep musical voice of Mr. Nicholas Cronin. I observed, however, in the evening that these two young men seemed remarkably excited about their horses, and that neither of them was in the least inclined to make himself ageeable to me, for which crime I am happy to say that they were both punished by drawing rank outsiders. Eurydice, I think, was the name of Sol’s; while Jack’s was Bicycle. Mr. Cronin drew an American horse named Iroquois, and all the others seemed fairly well pleased. I peeped into the smoking-room before going to bed, and was amused to see Jack consulting the sporting prophet of the Field, while Sol was deeply immersed in the Gazette. This sudden mania for the Turf seemed all the more strange, since I knew that if my cousin could distinguish a horse from a cow, it was as much as any of his friends would give him credit for.

  The ten succeeding days were voted very slow by various members of the household. I cannot say that I found them so. Perhaps that was because I discovered something very unexpected and pleasing in the course of that period. It was a relief to be free of any fear of wounding the susceptibilities of either of my former lovers. I could say what I chose and do what I liked now; for they had deserted me completely, and handed me over to the society of my brother Bob and Mr. Nicholas Cronin. The new excitement of horse-racing seemed to have driven their former passion completely out of their minds. Never was a house so deluged with special tips and every vile print which could by any possibility have a word bearing upon the training of the horses or their antecedents. The very grooms in the stable were tired of recounting how Bicycle was descended from Velocipede, or explaining to the anxious medical student how Eurydice was by Orpheus out of Hades. One of them discovered that her maternal grandmother had come in third for the Ebor Handicap; but the curious way in which he stuck the half-crown which he received into his left eye, while he winked at the coachman with his right, throws some doubt upon the veracity of his statement. As he remarked in a beery whisper that evening, “The bloke’ll never know the differ, and it’s worth’arf a dollar for him to think as it’s true.”

  As the day drew nearer the excitement increased. Mr. Cronin and I used to glance across at each other and smile as Jack and Sol precipitated themselves upon the papers at breakfast, and devoured the list of the betting. But matters culminated upon the evening immediately preceding the race. The Lieutenant had run down to the station to secure the latest intelligence, and now he came rushing in, waving a crushed paper frantically over his head.

  “Eurydice is scratched!” he yelled. “Your horse is done for, Barker!”

  “What!” roared Sol.

  “Done for—utterly broken down in training—won’t run at all!”

  “Let me see,” groaned my cousin, seizing the paper; and then, dropping it, he rushed out of the room, and banged down the stairs, taking four at a time. We saw no more of him until late at night, when he slunk in, looking very dishevelled, and crept quietly off to his room. Poor fellow, I should have condoled with him had it not been for his recent disloyal conduct toward myself.

  Jack seemed a changed man from that moment. He began at once to pay me marked attention, very much to the annoyance of myself and of some one else in the room. He played and sang and proposed round games, and, in fact, quite usurped the role usually played by Mr. Nicholas Cronin.

  I remember that it struck me as remarkable that on the morning of the Derby-day the Lieutenant should have entirely lost his interest in the race. He was in the greatest spirits at breakfast, but did not even open the paper in front of him. It was Mr. Cronin who unfolded it at last and glanced over its columns.

  “What’s the news, Nick?” asked my brother Bob.

  “Nothing much. O yes, here’s something. Another railway accident. Collision, apparently. Westinghouse brake gone wrong. Two killed, seven hurt, and—by Jove! listen to this: ‘Among the victims was one of the competitors in the equine Olympiad of to-day. A sharp splinter had penetrated its side, and the valuable animal had to be sacrificed upon the shrine of humanity. The name of the horse is Bicycle.’ Hullo, you’ve gone and spilled your coffee all over the cloth, Hawthorne! Ah! I forgot, Bicycle was your horse, wasn’t it? Your chance is gone, I am afraid. I see that Iroquois, who started low, has come to be first favorite now.”

  Ominous words, reader, as no doubt your nice discernment has taught you during, at the least, the last three columns. Don’t call me a flirt and a coquette until you have weighed the facts. Consider my pique at the sudden desertion of my admirers, think of my delight at the confession from a man whom I had tried to conceal from myself even that I loved, think of the opportunities which he enjoyed during the time that Jack and Sol were systematically avoiding me, in accordance with their ridiculous agreement. Weigh all this, and then which among you will throw the first stone at the blushing little prize of the Derby Sweep?

  Here it is as it appeared at the end of three short months in the Morning Post: “August 12th.—At Hatherley Church, Nicholas Cronin, Esq., eldest son of Nicholas Cronin, Esq., of the Woodlands, Cropshire, to Miss Eleanor Montague, daughter of the late James Montague, Esq., J.P., of Hatherley House.”

  Jack set off with the declared intention of volunteering for a ballooning expedition to the North Pole. He came back, however, in three days, and said that he had changed his mind, but intended to walk in Stanley’s footsteps across Equatorial Africa. Since then he has dropped one or two gloomy allusions to forlorn hopes and the unutterable joys of death; but on the whole he is coming round very nicely, and has been heard to grumble of late on such occasions as the under-doing of the mutton and the over-doing of the beef, which may be fairly set down as a very healthy symptom.

  Sol took it more quietly, but I fear the iron went deeper into his soul. However, he pulled himself together like a dear brave fellow as he is, and actually had the hardihood to propose the brides which occasion he became inextricably mixed up in a labyrinth of words. He washed his hands of the mutinous sentence, however, and resumed his seat in the middle of it, overwhelmed with blushes and applause. I hear that he has confided his woes and his disappointments to Grace Maberley’s sister, and met with the sympathy which he expected. Bob and Gracie are to be married in a few months, so possibly there may be another wedding about that time.

  Originally published in 1893.

  Cover design by Amanda Shaffer

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-6082-0

  This edition published in 2020 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

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