knocked the crippled old man over as if he were a ninepin. He came on
at a gallop now, the jockey leaning forward and trying to catch a
broken bridle, his two stirrups flying, his cap off. The little man was
swearing in English. And he had need to, for through the paddock gate
the crowd was densely packed and he was charging into it on a maddened
horse beyond control.

Deulin was nearer, and therefore the first to get to the horse; but
Cartoner's greater weight came an instant later, and the horse's head
was down.

"Let go! let go!" cried the jockey through his teeth, as Cartoner and
Deulin, one on each side, crammed the stirrups over his feet. "Let go!
I'll teach him!"

And they obeyed him, for the horse interested them less than the Prince
Bukaty, lying half-stunned on the turf. They were both at his side in a
moment and saw him open his eyes.

"I am unhurt," he said. "Help me up. No! sh--h! No, nothing is broken;
it is that confounded gout. No, I cannot rise yet! Leave me for a
minute. Go, one of you, and tell Wanda that I am unhurt. She is in box
No. 18, in the grand-stand."

He spoke in French, to Deulin more particularly.

"Go and tell her," said the Frenchman, over his shoulder, in English.
"Some busy fool has probably started off by this time to tell her that
her father is killed. You will find us in the club-house when you come
back."