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Chukkers's action had cleared him. Indeed he had killed two birds with one stone, and nearly a third. Kingfisher shied away over the course and crossed the path of Gee-Woa, who was going steady on the right. Both horses went down. Surging along behind the Yorkshireman, calm and unconcerned by the flurry and rush and confusion in front, came a great brown horse, the last of the galloping rout.
"She'll stand up. Trust Chukkers." "He's got nothing to beat." "Only Moonlighter." "Which is the Irish horse?" "The gray there. Cerise and white." "Flashy thing." "Yes. He'll give no trouble though. Three mile and a half is his limit." "Here's Gee-Woa, the Yorkshireman." "Looks an old-fashioned sort." "He can jump a haystack and stay all day; but he can't get a move on."
The American contingent breathed afresh, and the bookies were looking glum. Once over Beecher's Brook the first time round, with half the field down, the chance of a knock-out reduced, and Gee-Woa and Kingfisher grazing peacefully under the Embankment, the favourite's chances had greatly increased.
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