Lord Scamperdale stands transfixed. He is staring through his silver
spectacles at the awkwardly lying ball that represents poor Spraggon.
'By Heavens!' exclaims he, in an undertone to himself, 'I believe he's
killed!' And thereupon he swung down the stand-stairs, rushed to his horse,
and, clapping spurs to his sides, struck across the country to the spot.
Long before he got there the increased uproar of the spectators announced
the final struggle; and looking over his shoulder, he saw white jacket
hugging his horse home, closely followed by red, and shooting past the
winning-post.
'Dash that Mr. Sponge!' growled his lordship, as the cheers of the winners
closed the scene.
'The brute's won, in spite of him!' gasped Buckram, turning deadly pale at
the sight.
CHAPTER LXIX
HOW OTHER THINGS CAME OFF
'Twere hard to say whether Lucy's joy at Sponge's safety, or Lord
Scamperdale's grief at poor Spraggon's death, was most overpowering. Each
found relief in a copious flood of tears. Lucy sobbed and laughed, and
sobbed and laughed again; and seemed as if her little heart would burst its
bounds.
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