Mister Henry & Zelamir

The Village II:
The Annual Pony Boy Race

Chapters 10-11

Chapter 10

Then Sir Robert broke the shocked silence.

"Jack," he exclaimed almost incoherent with outrage, "this must be stopped. You and I are vice-presidents of the races we must go at once and tell Oblonsky that we will not tolerate this departure from tradition and he must withdraw his entry."

"I don't know if we should do anything too precipitate," Jack Wardle said in more measured tones. "Indeed I do not know if we can force Ivan to withdraw his team. The rules under which the race is run specify the course and prescribes a complicated handicapping system for teams exceeding certain weight and height limits but I think they are silent on the colour or sex of the teams and then there's the race and sex discrimination acts. You know we like to remain within the law when we can."

"But tradition 3; 3;"

"Well tradition can't take precedence to the law and so far as race is concerned we already have Mr Patel and his family as valued members of our community. Look at the various ventures he has set up keeping the charity scum busy and out of mischief. I was chatting to him the other day and he tells me he has received an order from a merchant in Delhi for footballs. He is now working the boys so hard that he is able to undercut Indian labour costs. Admittedly he has not yet submitted one of his sons to the trustees for acceptance as a charity boy but he tells me he is very concerned about his second boy Imji. Complete lack of moral fibre, apparently begged him to let a brat off a thrashing just because the rat was crying and saying he was sorry. And I tell you Sir Robert, as I told the boy's father I'd be glad to take Imji if he is offered, a pretty little chocolate coloured slut."

"William you're quite sure about this. Not that his team is black, that they were girls I mean. It isn't just that Mr Oblonsky has had their balls and cocks cut off. I know that would be against our 'no permanent noticeable damage convention' but he's new to the vale and anyway these Russian magnates don't generally regard themselves as bound by rules at all."

"It didn't look like anything had been cut off Uncle Jack. They just had slits down there."

"Well we all need to be getting down to the paddock now anyway and I'll have a look for myself. You coming Mark?"

There was a general exodus from the marquee but even then Jack's progress to the paddock was not a straightforward one. Everyone seemed to want to speak to him, to shake his hand and to wish him luck and he had a smile and a cheery word for everyone.

"Peter," Jack Wardle suddenly called spotting a tall distinguished looking man entering the enclosure. "You have been able to get here for the races after all. Mark I would like you to meet an old friend of mine and a valued and distinguished resident of the Vale, Mister Peter Henry. I don't think you have met him before. Unfortunately from our point of view business commitments cause him to be all too frequently absent from Muggleton and the Vale of Dingle. A great pity because if anyone knows how to handle charity boys it is he."

"You flatter me Jack," the man replied laughing easily while at the same time extending his hand to Mark, "all you need to get the best from charity boys is a strong right arm and a heavy leather strap. If you have them and are prepared to use them you will have no trouble with the scum."

"William," he continued catching sight of the boy standing beside Jack Wardle and Mark, "I have just been talking to your father. He tells me he has given you that ghastly slut of mine David to look after, nasty little brute. I hope you're keeping the louse in order. Flog him frequently and flog him hard is my advice. That's the only thing filth like that understands."

"He's here Mister Henry." William said turning round and grabbing the naked brat by the ear.

"Come on turd stop hiding behind me and step forward so that Mister Henry can take a look at you."

Viciously twisting the brat's ear William pulled David out from where he had been lurking behind him. Bent double his face distorted by pain and terror his knees visibly shaking with fear the brat presented so comical appearance that Mark laughed out loud. A cold smile played even on Mr Henry's lips as he looked the frightened boy over. It did not seem to Mark that the child found the presence of the smile on the man's face at all reassuring.

"Well he's certainly collected a few bruises and welts while he's been in your care young man," Mister Henry said jovially "I'm glad to see you haven't stood for any nonsense from the louse."

"David," Mister Henry's voice had suddenly changed from jovial to coldly menacing, "where are your shorts you useless lump of dog's excrement."

The brat tried to speak, his lips moved, but no coherent sound came from them. Then giving up he burst into tears.

"You are," Mister Henry continued remorselessly ignoring the brat's wails, "the most thoughtless ungrateful brute that I have had the misfortune to encounter. I spend a great deal of time in finding a pair of shorts for you in the Oxfam shop which from their excellent condition had only covered the bottoms of three or four pauper brats after they had been judged inadequate for free boy use and which fitted you well once we'd found a safety pin to join the waste band up and what happens?"

At this point the brat's legs seemed to give way under him and he sank to his knees still weeping bitterly.

"Did you show any gratitude any appreciation? Did you bother to make any effort to preserve and look after the shorts that had cost me so much effort and time to find for you? No you idle little turd you did not."

Mark glanced across at William Smythe. The boy was looking, he thought, rather uncomfortable. No doubt William was aware that a large number of those listening to Mister Henry berate the pauper brat for its ingratitude had seen him rip the shorts from the slut as a preliminary to flogging it. The boy was probably worried that someone would mention this and Mister Henry would turn his anger on him. There was no question of a public flogging for William a free boy but the matter could be referred to his father and parents in the Vale had old fashioned ideas of discipline. Worse though for a proud high spirited lad like him was the possibility of being admonished in front of his own and his fathers friends. Mark was sure though that no one in their party would be so mean as to give the boy away just to safe a pauper brat from a beating. William was in reality quite safe, no grown up in the know would embarrass the boy by betraying him and no one would take any notice of anything the brat said. If the slut was stupid enough to try to shift the blame for the loss of his shorts onto William, the person really responsible, he would only be making his position worse. Mister Henry would flog him even harder for having the insolence to slander a free boy. William would no doubt take his own revenge somewhat later. The fact that David, although obviously terrified, kept silent showed that he had already learnt the hard realities of life as a charity boy.

"Well," Mister Henry continued icily, "you can dismiss any idea of my wasting any more of my time finding clothes for you, you miserable louse. You'll remain naked now for the rest of your service."

Mark though he saw a fleeting expression of hope cross David's face. No doubt to a pauper brat, devoid of pride, modesty or self-respect, the prospect of constant nakedness was of no consequence – if that was to be his only punishment 3; 3; 3;

If that was indeed the boy's hope Mister Henry's next words destroyed it.

"But that is for the future," said the coldly angry man, "first it is my duty to try to, I will not say instil some sense of responsibility or some sense of duty into your moronic mind, for it is clear that you like the rest of the charity scum are incapable of any of the higher emotions, but to persuade you that the consequences of such criminal carelessness as you, you miserable boy, have been guilty of are so painful that you will in future make some minimal effort to look after any property, such as the valuable pair of shorts that I in a moment of ill judged indulgence gave you to clothe your deformed body, entrusted to your care."

Before Mark could wonder at the description of the tattered and thread bare shorts that had hardly covered David's bottom as 'valuable property' or of the boy's body as deformed which apart from the many bruises that covered it was as pleasant to look at as that of any other young animal, Mister Henry suddenly lashed out with his foot. The toe of his highly polished brogue caught the kneeling brat in the balls. The boy howled. He fell forward, his hands clasping his crutch, his head pressed to the ground, his bottom invitingly upraised. With the speed and confidence of a man who had done this sort of thing many times in the past Mister Henry shifted his position slightly and drove his left heel hard down into the small of David's back flattening the boy and pinning him to the ground.

Mister Henry thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. Mark saw a look of puzzlement fleetingly cross his face like a man searching his pockets for something, a wallet or car keys perhaps, that he knew should be there but not finding it. This look vanished as Jack Wardle stepped forward smiling his hand outstretched offering the man his own leather strap showing an understanding and care for the needs of his fellows that was typical of that jovial good hearted man.

"Thanks old man," Mister Henry said, "I can't imagine how I can have forgotten such an essential an item. I suppose I was in such a hurry to get to the races this morning and being away on business so much one gets out of the normal way of doing things."

These remarks were punctuated by the regular crack of leather striking bare flesh and the squeals of the brat as Mister Henry flayed its bum.

The crowd in the paddock was beginning to build up as people hurried forward to witness the preliminaries to the main event of the day. However, apart from three or four free boys who are always ready to be distracted by the amusement of watching a slut being flogged, not a single person stopped to watch so unremarkable event as a brat being thrashed. Nailed to the ground by Mister Henry's heel grinding into his back David squirmed and shrieked as the strap raised fresh livid welts across the flesh of his already bruised rump. It was not long before beads of dark blood began to form where the tip of the belt had curled round and bitten the boy's flanks. Soon these beads had swollen and coalesced to form first a trickle and then a flood of blood that glistened redly as it welled from the broken flesh of the brat's lacerated bottom.

Mark was concerned about Jack Wardle. He knew his old friend was keen to get down to the weighing in enclosure as quickly as possible but it was considered the height of bad form to interfere in the flogging of a charity brat. He had not however allowed for the innate good manners and kindly consideration for the feelings and interests of others that still distinguish the natives of the Vale of Dingle although so sadly lacking nowadays elsewhere in the United Kingdom.

Mister Henry was obviously aware of the pressures on Jack Wardle as the time for the running of the Corvo Cup drew ever closer. He had hardly landed a dozen or so cuts across the backside of the screaming child before he stopped.

"That will have to do for the time being," he remarked raising his voice so it could be heard over the boy's sobbing. "It is a wholly inadequate punishment for so blatant a betrayal of trust as that of which that piece of filth has been guilty nor will it be sufficient I am sure to impress on its apology for a mind the need for better behaviour in the future. However the balance of the lesson will have to be left to later."

"Now get," Mister Henry continued slashing the boy viciously across the back of the thighs with the strap, "up on your feet and stop that stupid noise you lump of useless dog shit." He bent forward and grabbing hold of the back of the boy's collar yanked him to his feet before dismissing him with a hearty clout across the side of the head.

"I am sure we can rely on young William to continue the brat's instruction with at least equal vigour and enthusiasm. Can we not William?"

"Oh certainly Uncle Jack," William Smythe replied cheerfully," but do you mind if I left it till after the races. Don't worry though I'll really flay really the little tyke's bum tonight."

Everybody laughed at this apart, Mark noted, from David whose face crumpled once again at the prospect of so imminent a renewal of his bottom's acquaintanceship with the strap. The sight and indeed the sound, for the prospect of a further beating elicited another bout of loud wailing from the brat, of the boy's distress increased the general merriment of those present.

"Well, Jack Wardle said raising his voice above the ensuing gales of laughter, "this is all no doubt fun but time presses and I must get down to the track before the race begins."

Almost immediately though he was brought to a halt by a cry of recognition from a rather fat totally bald middle-aged man in the company of a younger leaner companion.

"Mr Wardle, my dear fellow, and Miss Thompson as well, how delightful to meet you both and on a purely social occasion for a change. I don't think either of you have met my friend Mister Matthew Ellis."

This name was said with something of an air and indeed all of the adults present would have been familiar with the name of the recently appointed Under Secretary of State at the Ministry of Social Inclusiveness (previously the Home Office) with special responsibility for the Offender Management Service (called in a less enlightened time H.M.Prison Service). His career had gone through something of a crisis some months before. However the Prime Minister had been unusually stalwart in his support. Now it was generally agreed in the press that his appointment of one, who whatever his faults, had clearly taken a keen interest in the treatment of youth offenders, or more properly behaviourally challenged young persons, to head the new service was an inspired one.

"Mister Adams," Jack exclaimed apparently as delighted as his interlocutor at the chance meeting, "how pleasant to run across you like this and Mister Ellis. No doubt you are looking at how we manage things in the Vale. Indeed I would suggest the rest of Britain has much to learn from us, no juvenile delinquency here, no anti-social behaviour."

Now let me see, Miss Thompson you obviously know from your professional contacts but let me introduce you to the rest of my party. Everybody this is Mr Adams the principal of Ovingdean Reform School of which I am sure you will all have heard. Indeed I think I mentioned at dinner last night the discussions we are having with Mister Adams on the possibility of releasing some of his boys into the care of our trustees and no doubt you will remember the remarks of our Home Secretary, Mister Plonkett, after he visited Ovingdean. 'My sort of reform school'."

"And now these are 3; 3; 3;"

Jack Wardle sensibly restricted his introductions to the grown ups but even so there were a fair number of people to be mentioned and both Mister Adams and Matthew Ellis's faces quickly assumed faintly bemused expressions as the list of names grew. It was only when the name of Brian Roberts was mentioned that they both became suddenly animated.

"Mister Roberts," Matthew Ellis said holding out his hand to Brian, "I have been wanting to meet you for some time to say how sorry I was for the problems you experienced and your very understanding and helpful attitude when it came to resolving matters." (See my earlier story 'Into Care' – click here – for the background here.)

"I would certainly like to join Matthew in that," Mister Adam said taking Brian's hand in his turn, "and how is young Nicky since his return from Ovingdean."

"He's about here somewhere," Brian replied smiling, "now where is he. Ah hiding behind my own son Adam. Nicky step forward so these two gentlemen can see you. Stand up straight and try to look intelligent. There he is. As you can see he's a bit nervous but his behaviour generally is much improved. He's quieter and much more obedient, no arguments or rowdiness."

"Excellent," Matthew Ellis said enthusiastically, "we regard the community as our main customer in the Management Offender Department but parents, especially responsible caring ones like yourselves, are an important element, in our view, in that community. If you find the boy's behaviour improved after his stay in Ovingdean then it is a good indication that the community at large will do so also."

"You do know about the pre-empting recidivism initiative that my department has introduced? In brief if a parent or guardian feels a boy's behaviour is beginning to deteriorate after his release from Ovingdean or a similar establishment he has only to report it to my department and the boy will be immediately recommitted for a further period of training. It is designed to cut down on the number of young people who re-offend after a period of detention in one of our remedial units. We are working on developing it still further into a pre-empting anti-social behaviour programme where we identify potential offenders and take them off the streets for treatment before they have had the opportunity to commit an anti-social act. At my suggestion, as you may know, the Prime Minister has set my department a target of reducing juvenile anti-social behaviour by eighty per cent with in the life time of this current parliament and these initiatives are an essential part of creating a society in our country fit for the twenty first century."

"Anyway Nicky has already been to Ovingdean so he is subject to the pre-empting recidivism initiative so you only have to let me know if his behaviour shows signs of deteriorating and we will take him back."

"What Matthew hasn't said is that he would be delighted if you would return Nicholas to us," Mister Adams interposed. "After some initial problems Nicholas adjusted very well to life at Ovingdean and he became a great favourite of Matthew's. Judging from Matthew's comments Nicholas must have enjoyed certain aspects of his time with us he would not have performed so well otherwise."

'A bit nervous' did not, Mark thought, adequately describe the terror that clearly gripped the boy as he listened to this conversation. He was visibly trembling and seemed on the verge of tears. Adam, as always it seemed ready to come to the younger boy's aid, braving his father's anger let his hand brush against the side of Nicky's bare thigh in a surreptitious gesture of support and reassurance. Again Mark reflected how attractive a boy Nicky, was slim and fair haired with skin tanned golden brown, his brief shorts hugging a tight deeply dimpled bottom. The fear that made his knees shake and gave a quiver to his lips giving him a delightfully vulnerable air.

Mister Adams paused apparently to give Brian a chance to reply but he remained silent.

"I am sure money would not influence your decision in this matter," Adams continued smoothly after a short silence. "Any decision you come to will no doubt be prompted by such matters as the welfare of your family and marriage, of society as a whole and the ultimate welfare of the boy himself. However a certain saving in costs would be an inevitable consequence of returning Nicholas to our care. We would assume responsibility for all the costs of keeping him, which incidentally I am sure we would manage much more economically than you."

Mister Adams paused again waiting for some reaction from Brian. After a second or two of silence he resumed speaking accompanying his words with an urbane smile.

"We recognise, that is my friend Matthew Ellis and myself recognise, that loosing Nicholas might cause distress to you and your wife. He is, as we all can see, a pretty boy and as Matthew assures me a biddable and very lively little companion. Matthew was only just now remarking on how he misses Nicholas, no other boy has been as, how shall I put it, as adroit as Nicholas in satisfying his needs. Now Matthew wouldn't of course expect you to do anything so crass as to sell the boy to him but he would be prepared to pay you say five hundred pounds to ease the trauma of his departure."

"Dad 3; 3;" Nicholas burst out in protest.

"Quiet Nicholas you impertinent child," Brian thundered. "How dare you interrupt our conversation. You know the rule about not speaking unless you are spoken to. You seem to enjoy living dangerously. I can tell you it won't take many more incidents like that for me to take up Mister Adams kind offer and send you back to Ovingdean where they know how to bring unruly boys to heel."

"Mister Adams," he continued dropping his voice to a more reasonable level, "I am most grateful to you and Mister Ellis for your interest in the boy. Goodness knows he is and has been a problem to his mother and myself but for the time being at least we will perservere with him."

"Very well then," Mister Adams replied smoothly, "I can only admire your sense of duty but don't forget if the boy becomes too much for you we will always be prepared to take him off your hands. Now Matthew it is time we were moving on. The race I think will begin in the next half hour or so and we want to be well placed to see the start."

Raising his hat Mister Adams walked off taking Matthew Ellis with him.

"Yes come along Mark," Jack Wardle said, "We must get down to the weigh in."

Glancing back Mark saw Adam slip an arm round Nicky's narrow shoulders and hug him. The boy Mark thought look frightened and shocked but he wondered if there was not a small bulge in the front of the child's shorts. Turning to follow Jack Wardle he noticed Angela. It seemed to him the she too was watching Nicky a speculative smile on her face.

Mark recognised Oblonsky, a big moonfaced man, from his newspaper photographs. He was standing slightly apart from the crowd gathered round the weigh-bridge and measuring posts where the teams were checked before being formally entered in the race. He was smoking a cigar and seemed oblivious to the excitement about him. A slim blond narrow hipped boy with the face of a cruel angel stood beside him. The boy was dressed in a suit of tight fitting black and yellow leathers and was holding a crash helmet by its chin-strap in his right hand.

Oblonsky catching sight of Jack Wardle removed the cigar from his mouth and waived cheerfully.

"Jack," he called out, "I am very glad to see you. The stewards seem to be reluctant for some reason to enter my team."

"I will certainly do my best for you but who is this young man?"

"Oh this is Stefan my son. He is my jockey today. This Stefan is Mister Jack Wardle a very important man in the Vale and a noted trainer of pony boys."

"How do you do Sir," the boy said holding out his hand.

If his father's accent betrayed his foreign origins Stefan's was indistinguishable from any upper class English boy's and no doubt reflected attendance at an expensive prep school.

"How are you Stefan," Jack Wardle replied solemnly shaking the boy's hand. "I must introduce you to Richard Smythe who is racing my team for me. Now let me see if I can sort this problem out for your father. Perhaps you can show me your team."

"Certainly Sir they're by the weigh-bridge with the other teams."

Mark followed Jack Wardle as accompanied by the Oblonskys they pushed their way through the crowd surrounding the weigh-bridge. It was immediately clear why the crowd had formed. Oblonsky's pony girls were not milk chocolate or dark chocolate or mahogany or sienna or any other shade of brown. They were the purest unadulterated jet. Yet they lacked the full lips and flattened noses of the Negro. Their faces had the fine-drawn hawk like features of the Arabs. They were harnessed to the shafts of a light racing cart, the sun glistening darkly on their oiled limbs and bodies. Clearly despite the blinkers that covered their eyes they sensed the presence of the crowd, of other racing teams and the excitement in the air. Their harnesses clinked as they shifted uneasily, shaking their heads and pawing at the ground beneath their bare feet. The groom in charge of them tightened his hold on their bridles and spoke softly to them before saluting Ivan Oblonsky.

"A bit frisky this morning Ted," Oblonsky remarked walking up to the pony girls and slapping a gleaming black flank. The pony girl jittered from foot to foot and throwing her head back winnowed softly.

"Steady girl steady 3; 3; That they are Sir. Keen for the off the pair of em. I hope they don't keep us hangin about much longer this pair won't stop still for ever."

"What magnificent animals," Jack Wardle exclaimed standing with his head on one side gazing at the two naked girls between the shafts of the racing trap. He took a couple of paces back to get a general idea of their configuration.

"By all means examine them more closely if you wish," Ivan Oblonsky said easily. Continuing as Jack Wardle stepped up close to the girls and bent to run his hands up the back of a hard black shin, "I get them from an establishment I have on the borders of the Sudan and Ethiopia. It is a matter of doubt as to in which country precisely it is situated which is helpful. We take the best that are offered us at somewhere between four and five years and train them over there until they are ready to race and then bring the most promising of them over to Europe.

"No fat at all, all good firm muscle," Jack remarked approvingly prodding the girl's glistening thigh

"About how old is the bitch?" he asked as his hand moved to explore the girl's hairless crutch.

"Steady now. Steady," the groom shouted as he hung on to the bridle fighting to control the girl as she reared back striking out with her knees at Jack Wardle. "You would, would you, you fucking bitch. I'll fucking teach you 3; 3;."

He lashed the girl across the front of the thighs with the slack of the reigns raising dark red weals across the smooth ebony skin. The girl screamed and tugged at her bridle prancing from foot to foot as the groom thrashed her.

"That's enough Ted," Oblonsky said, "she'll calm down in a minute won't you girl, eh?"

He stepped quietly forward and ran his hand up the back of the pony girl's neck gently squeezing and massaging it. The girl shuddered and ceased tugging at her bridle standing still, panting and trembling nervously.

"I'm afraid they all go wild when they're touched there." Ivan Oblonsky remarked, "it's lucky she had a bit in her mouth or she would have gone for you with her teeth as well 3; 3; As for her age, somewhere between fourteen and sixteen years. It's difficult to know exactly. The bitch won't know it herself and she couldn't tell us if she did. Like your charity boys they develop slower than most because of their restricted diet and the way they're worked and then my trainer was a coach to the East German Girls Gymnastic team and he knows what drugs to use to hold them back. I'd say she's in her last season racing now."

"There's little sign of maturity," Jack agreed, "no body hair and hardly more than boy's breasts."

"They're both intact too and will remain so while I'm racing them." Oblonsky remarked.

"Well she's a fine looking beast but I wouldn't like to have to ride her," Jack said with a laugh, "too dangerous for a middle aged man like me."

"We'll have her bent over a bar with her arms stretched out on either side of her and secured by the wrists for that and she'll be taken from behind to stop her using her teeth. It's not a bad experience really liking fucking a wild animal which I suppose is what it is for all intents and purposes."

"Dad," Stefan Oblonsky interposed, "Dad if we win the race could I have the bitch to ride, please. I'm sure I could manage it."

"Well I don't know Stefan," Oblonsky replied chuckling indulgently at his young son's eagerness. "Apart from anything else she's a bit on the big side for you."

"That's just typical," Stefan began heatedly, "just because I'm young you don't think I can 3;"

"It's more usual Stefan," Jack said quietly, "here in the Vale for a boy to start off with one of the pauper brats. That's how I started off. There's so many available and it'll easier to find one more your size. If your father's agreeable you can both come up to the Manor tomorrow for lunch and then you can take your pick of what I've got available.

"And," he added with a laugh, "that invitation stands whether you win the race or not. Now let's see if we can sort out your father's problem with the stewards. It was not difficult to recognise the two stewards. They were standing slightly apart from the crowd with the Clerk of the Course all three dressed in dark pinstripe suites and sporting bowler hats and, despite the cloudless sky, tightly rolled umbrellas.

They turned to greet Jack Wardle and Mark as they approached.

"Oblonsky tells me you're making problems over entering his team," Jack Wardle said after the preliminary courtesies had been completed.

"Well it is a bit difficult," the Clerk replied. "We can't find anything in the rules that says he can't enter a team of girls and that they have to be white but it is completely unprecedented. All the teams have, from when records were first kept, been made up of pauper brats and all pauper brats are white. And then we really can't get on with handicapping the teams until we know which teams are going to run so we've had to stop the weigh in until the matter is decided. Thus the queue." He waived his hand to indicate the racing traps, teams of naked pony boys their oiled and burnished bodies glistening in the sun harnessed between the shafts of the racing carts and their young jockeys in their brightly coloured leathers standing beside them lined up beside the weigh-bridge.

Mark could understand why the clerk found the situation difficult. The handicapping for such races was not a straightforward process. Mark had once asked Jack Wardle to explain how it was done and after an hour and a half and the production of two flow charts he had not been very much the wiser. It seemed to be based on a comparison of weights and heights of the competing teams to a hypothetical but variable norm and was achieved by adding weights to the carts of those who fell outside certain variable limits. Mark having listened to his friend's exposition decided that, as with the game of cricket and so far as he could see American Football as well, you had to be born with an understanding of the rules.

"I feel if the rules do not prohibit something then it must be allowed," Jack said incisively. "Anyway how would it look if we turned Oblonsky's team away. He would be able to claim that we had done so because we were fearful that he was going to win and if he did that it would devalue the whole contest and I for one would not in that event wish to race my team."

"Well that decides that. Apart from anything else your team's favourite to win and there'd just about be a riot with the punters if you withdraw it. Mister Oblonsky bring your team up to be registered now please."

One by one the teams came forward to be weighed, measured and handicapped and registered before moving off to line up behind the starting line. Jack's team was the fifth in the queue. Mark who had been impressed by the clean lines of Oblonsky's black girls felt a surge of renewed optimism as the groom led Merlin and Lucifer forward. Such sleek healthy young animals would surely be more than a match in both speed and endurance for the bitches.

With young Richard Smythe a small slight figure in his tight fitting blue and white leathers standing beside them they took their place on the weigh-bridge. A cheer went up from the watching crowd. The groom fought to hold his charges as they jerked at their bridles, trembling with nervous energy, their feet almost dancing under them in their eagerness. When it was time for Richard to take his place in the light racing cart to be weighed it was all he could, do straining at the reins, red in the face with effort, to prevent the brutes cantering off by themselves. To Mark the slim figure of the boy standing straight and proud in the racing cart exerting all his strength to hold in check the two well grown charity brats straining at the traces somehow epitomised the drama and excitement of the whole event.

"That's it," the senior steward said and the groom stepped smartly forward to take hold of the left hand brat by its bridle. Richard Smythe relieved of the need to control the pony boys for the moment grinned his thanks and slackened the reins. Jack fell in on the right hand side of the trap with Mark walking beside him as the groom led the brats, straining and jittery between the shafts, to the starting line.

"Now Richard," Jack said seriously resting his hand on Lucifer's naked rump as he walked beside the racing cart, "I want you to listen carefully to what I say."

"First and most important you are not to put yourself at risk. You are a free boy and very precious. With those leathers on you should come to no harm but I want you to put your helmet and gauntlets on now and once your under starters orders you put your visor down and you keep it down until the race is over. Your Mother and Father will never forgive me if you were to be hurt."

"On the same subject. If there should be an accident the trap is tipped over or something you get clear. Don't bother about Lucifer and Merlin. Let the stewards look after them. They're fine young animals but they're only charity brats and there's plenty more from where they came from and there's only one of you. Remember the old lines "All the charity boys ever born is not worth one free boy broken and torn".

By now they had reached the start line. The groom led them behind the five carts already lined up for the off and wheeled them into place on the right of the line. Over to their left Mark could see Stefan Oblonsky standing on his racing cart his head bent as he listened to his father talking earnestly. Mark could see that the two black pony girls were as restive and eager as their own golden brown boys.

"Now for the race itself," Jack continued as racing cart after racing cart were led behind them down and lined up to their right. "Its going to be a fast start, the ground is dry and it's down hill, a long slow slope, to the ford over the Dingle. Lucifer and Merlin will want to go. They want to go now but try to keep them back. Remember they're the muscle you are the brain. The ford will be the first choke point there are thirty-four carts competing and there's only about room for six carts abreast at the ford. They'll all get there just about the same time and there'll be chaos. The Dingle is not in flood this year so there won't be quite the mayhem there was two years ago but there'll be a few traps tipped over and panic stricken brat's thrashing about in the water. This is a long race and you'll have plenty of time to catch up and get ahead later. You won't be able to do that though if you tip the trap over in the river. So hold back, wait for the way to be clear and then go."

"The meadow on the far side of the stream slopes gently upwards to the base of the downs. The going there will be firm and you can give them their heads and start to make some ground. You should be up among the first dozen or so by the time you reach the base of the downs. They've taken the hedge out along the top of the meadow so you can run straight out on the surfaced road. However the road itself is a narrow one with only room for two carts side by side and there are a number of hair pin bends on it as it rises. You should make more ground on the hill. Only over take when you see the way is clear. Don't try to overtake on the inside of a corner because the chances are the cart your over taking will cut in and then you'll both be tipped over and a tarmac road is hard even if you are wearing a crash helmet and leathers. Get close up behind the cart you want to over take, check in front and behind you, then if its all clear give the ponies a touch of the whip and get past it fast."

"There's seven miles [11km] of good open down land at the top of the scarp. That's where you can really get going. Go wide, you can afford to with these two brats they're strong and fast, by all means use the whip on them to get a bit of extra pace. Remember though the toughest part of the race is at the end and you need to keep a good deal in reserve for that. Use the light whip not the metal tipped one," Jack said touching first the long white handled whip and then its black companion held in the upright tube to the right of where Richard stood in the trap.

"I expect that by the time you come to take the road down the scarp back to the valley floor you should be well up with the leaders, perhaps in the first three. The road down is narrow and steep and twisting. Take it steadily. If anyone tries to pass you let him by. He'll probably have a smash before he reaches the bottom."

"You come out on a nice gentle slope down to the Dingle a broad shallow ford and then a long pull up to the finishing line. It's on that final slope that the race will be lost and won. These brutes are well up to the distance. You know that. They've done it many times in practice runs with you up behind them. This time it is for real and, Richard, I want that cup. Now you can use the weighted whip. So far as I am concerned you can shred their backs provided you win. It doesn't matter if we can't run them ever again provided I have the Corvo cup back where it belongs at the Manor."

"Now there's the bell. We're under starting orders. Tom I'll take the brats from you. You and Mark get back behind the spectator's line."

Chapter 11

The noise of the crowd had died away to an expectant hush. The only sounds now were the occasional muffled curses of the grooms as they struggled to hold their teams steady and the jingle of harness as the brats shifted nervously in tense expectation. The excitement of the occasion had penetrated even into the brats' muffled and blinkered consciousness.

The starter, immaculately dressed as all course officials were in pin stripe suit and bowler, mounted the step-ladder at the side of the course. He took one final glance down the line of racing traps to check that all were ready. Satisfied he raised his starting pistol.

A shot rang out shattering the intense silence. The shrill screams of the jockeys and the sharp cracking of their whips as they urged their teams on rose over the deep roar of the crowd and the clatter and rumble of the racing traps as the thirty-four teams of pony brats leapt forward. The ground was hard and the traps hurtled down the opening straight towards the first bend as the brats charged forward straining every muscle to get ahead of their rivals before the first bend. There had hardly been a yard between racing carts at the start of the race and it was hard to keep them steady as they flew bumping and clattering over the uneven ground. Long before the beginning of the bend there had been a number of collisions but the traps were surprisingly stable. There would be a shuddering crash as they struck each other, the brats, thrown off their pace would stumble but then the traps would bounce apart and the two teams pick up their speed once again.

However as the teams approached the long left-hand bend that would take them into the gentle down hill slope past the brat compound to the River Dingle and its ford they began to bunch more and more together. Except that is for two traps, one where the slight form of the child jockey was clad in Jack Wardle's blue and white colours, the other drawn by two glistening jet black pony brats. These two alone kept far out to the right away from the ruck setting an easy pace that still hinted at the power and pace latent in the four brats that drew them.

As the mass of racing traps jostled for position on the inside of the bend the bumps became more frequent. Finally the inevitable happened. The front shafts of a trap trying to cut inside were, whether deliberately or not Mark could not tell, struck hard by the rim of the left hand wheel of the cart it was trying to displace. This flung the two brats drawing it sideways with a rib cracking smash into the wooden rail marking the boundary of the course. They bounced off this and went down sprawling on their hands and knees. The cart they were drawing driven on by its own momentum slued uncontrollably outwards to the right only to be run into at full tilt by the team of the following trap. It's shafts with its own weight and the weight of its team behind them drove the cart it had struck sideways and snapping its axle and tipped it on its side. The jockey in the stricken cart was hurled to the ground by the force of the impact and its pony boys thrown onto their sides where they lay unable to free themselves from their traces, their bare legs frantically thrashing in an effort to right themselves. Blinded by their blinkers and almost totally deaf Mark supposed they had a very limited idea of what had happened to them and none at all of the causes of it.

The situation of the second trap was little better. The cart itself so far as Mark could see was undamaged. It's jockey though had been catapulted over it's front and was now lying on the ground apparently momentarily stunned while its team of pony boys had been trapped between it and the cart it had struck. When that had rolled over on its side the two brats had been lifted off the ground with their lower bodies pinned between the traps.

As Mark watched the two jockeys scrambled to their feet. The one whose trap had turned over, clearly furious at being put out of the race, ran across to where his two pony boys lay still secured to the shafts and began to flog them with his whip. Even at that distance Mark could hear the thud of the lash as it cut into the two brats and the strange inarticulate howls and moans that were the pony boys cries of distress.

The second boy jockey, after standing a moment shaking his head and looking about himself uncertainly, began to tug at the bridles of his two pony boys trying to pull them clear of the wreckage of the racing trap they had run into. A Land-Rover drew up beside the track and two marshals got out of it and went to the boy's assistance. After a good deal of pulling and manoeuvring they managed to disentangle the two brats who had been badly cut across the front of their thighs in the crash. Despite this the young jockey scrambled back into the trap and lashing at their bare shoulders with his whip sent them hobbling off in pursuit of the other contestants blood streaming down the front of their bare legs.

"Wonderful example of character," Jack Wardle remarked approvingly ducking under the rail to join Mark. "Good boys both of them. Our boys don't take failure easily. They're both showing real grit."

As he spoke there was a burst of hysterical screaming from the pauper boys crammed into the brat pen as they vied with each other, cheering their guardians' teams on, as the leaders came into sight. Now the teams of pony boys were out of the bend and starting the long straight stretch down to the Dingle River. The course sloped gently downwards, the ground was firm, and in front of them was the ford over the Dingle, with rapids and swirling currents and deep pools above and below, with room for six traps abreast at the best.

The first traps at the ford would be fine. They would have an easy passage across and a straight run up the meadow on the opposite side to the foot of the Downs. The later ones would have problems as the narrow passage of the ford became clogged with the teams jostling each other to get across. Then there would be accidents as carts crashed into each other in the general melee and pony boys went down in the swirling waters of the Dingle.

The young jockeys saw the opportunity and danger ahead of them. They stood up in their traps, screaming at their teams of pony boys, lashing at the naked brats with their whips, trying to get the last ounce of effort and speed out of their teams as they raced each other for the ford.

Two teams did not take part in this wild stampede. Out to the left, well away from the mass of racing traps with their yelling whip cracking drivers bouncing along behind the matched pairs of desperately galloping pony boys, Jack Wardle's and Mr Oblonsky's teams, effortlessly matching each other pace for pace, maintained an easy apparently unhurried pace.

The lead teams had reached the river. They plunged down the bank into the swiftly flowing stream. Drops of water rose glittering in the sunlight from under the feet of the pony boys and the wheels of the racing traps. Water splashed up over the brats, gilding their naked bodies with silver slicks. The river at the ford was hardly more than knee deep and the first few teams were quickly across and beginning the long pull up the meadow on the opposite side.

Later teams did not have so easy a passage. Soon the ford was clogged with racing traps and their teams of blinkered pony boys. The brats isolated in their own dark almost silent worlds, feeling the water deepen as they were urged forward, began to panic. Their jockeys fought to control their frightened teams, some sawing on the reigns trying to prevent them bolting, others lashing their teams on, intent on breaking clear of the scrummage of racing traps and the naked boys tethered to their shafts. Traps and teams of boys were jammed together, jostling, in the fast flowing water. A team lost it's balance and fell sideways. Mark could only guess at the terror that must have then seized the two brats, blinded by the blinkers that covered their eyes and held fast in the shafts of the trap by their harness, as the water closed over their heads. Their legs appeared momentarily out of the water frantically thrashing as they tried to regain their feet. Other teams became entangled in their struggles and the chaos and panic spread.

A jockey tried to avoid the melee by entering the river above the ford. The bank there was steep and his team with the weight of the trap behind them entered the stream in a rush raising a great splash of water. The stream under the bank was deep and fast flowing. The jockey was thrown clear as trap and brats were swept sideways down towards the ford. The panic stricken brats, once they felt land beneath their feet, made a dash to get away from the water but with deprived of sight and with no one to guide them, they simply bolted diagonally across the ford deepening and spreading the already existing chaos.

Richard Smythe arrived at the banks of the Dingle and seeing the confused mass of brats and racing carts blocking the ford, without checking, swung his team of pony boys in a wide curve until they were running back up the hill. Beside him, keeping pace with his matching pair of nut brown pony boys, ran the two lithe black girls who drew young Stefan Oblonsky's trap. Turning as one the two teams ran back down the hill, spotting a clear gap through which at last they could pass unhindered, they checked their teams and gently eased them down the bank into the water. Still keeping their brats well in hand they splashed through the river.

Out on the further bank Richard shouted and for the first time since the race began brought his whip into play. Responding to a single flick of the whip across one bare shoulder Merlin and Lucifer lent into their traces. The light racing trap surged forward as they lengthened and quickened their stride. For a moment Richard's trap drew away from Stefan's. Then the Russian boy cracked his whip, raising a livid weal across ebony skin and the two dusky girls in the shafts of his racing cart raised their pace and the gap closed. Side by side the two teams raced each other up the gentle slope of the meadow. The brats bare feet beating an urgent tattoo on the hard ground as they ran. Richard and Stefan urging their teams on with shouts and cracks of their whips. Up the hill they flew tearing past other slower carts, apparently oblivious to all but their own rivalry. At one moment the jet black bodies of the girls would draw slightly ahead at the next the lighter skinned boys were momentarily in the lead.

"This has the making of a classic race," Jack Wardle remarked, standing beside Mark, his field glasses held to his eyes. "If Richard and Stefan don't do anything stupid and crash and Oblonsky's girls can stay the course, I know my brats can, they've been run on it often enough, then there should be only the two of them in it by the end and it should be a cracking finish. Here Mark you have a look."

Mark took the glasses from his friend and focused them on the meadow on the opposite side of the Dingle. Soon he picked up the two traps with the slight figures of William and Stefan standing upright in them and the two teams of sturdy naked brats between their shafts. The glasses were excellent. Mark could see the expressions of concentration and excitement on the boy jockeys faces. He could also see the specks of white foam forming about the edges of bits in the brats' mouths, the rise and fall of their chests and the streaks of sweat glistening on their bare bodies as they pounded up the slope towards the base of the Downs.

The course began to bend to the right towards where it joined the surfaced road climbing the steep scarp to the top of the Downs in a series of hairpin bends. Stefan Oblonsky was on the right and his team began to draw ahead as they entered the bend. Richard after one futile attempt to force his way past him slackened his pace and accepting the inevitable swung onto the tarmacked road behind him.

Mark could see the brats straining against their traces as their strong young legs drove them up the now steeply rising road. The advantage of the bend had allowed Stefan to get ahead but only just. Richard urged his team up the hill with hardly a foot between them and the trap in front.

The two teams had slowed as they faced the long arduous haul to the top of the Downs. But if they had slowed they were still managing a faster pace than many of their competitors. A racing cart loomed ahead of Stefan. He slowed his team until coming out of the first tight bend the road momentarily straightened before turning tight back on itself again, as it did over and over again as it wound up the chalk escarpment. Stefan seized his chance. He pulled his cart onto the outside and with a shout and a crack of his whip sent his two dark skinned lasses tearing past the slower cart cutting in in front of it just before the start of the next bend.

"Oh God," Jack Wardle exclaimed, "Richard's not going to try and follow is he? I told him to be careful on the hill."

Recognising the agony in his friend's voice Mark silently surrendered the glasses to him. He could see well enough without them. Richard began to push his brats on obviously planning to take the cart that his rival had overtaken on the inside. Mark heard Jack muttering imprecations under his breath as he cursed his own stupidity in entrusting a valuable racing team to an inexperienced boy and Richard for being so stupid and ill disciplined as not even to be able to follow the simplest instructions. Then the boy checked his team and fell back. Once clear of the bend, he in his turn swung his trap out and overtook.

"Sensible boy that," Jack remarked, "intelligent driving, always had every confidence in him."

Mark thought the moment was too highly charged to risk pointing out to his friend the inconsistencies in his comments.

"Where the hell is Voyle," Jack continued almost beside himself with frustration, "I told him to bring the Range Rover here as soon as they had fairly started on the hill and now there's no sign of 3; Oh there you are Voyle. Take the lane to Hanger Farm and then up the track to the iron-age fort at Hawsburry Top. Get in Mark please. If we hurry we'll be at the top of the Downs in time to see them run the whole of the upland stage of the race."

"Voyle you take the Muggleton road and then the second turning to the right 3; 3; no perhaps it would be quicker to great straight on to the Lower Town cross roads and 3; 3;"

The chauffeur who knew the way as well as Jack and was used to his employer's ways slipped the clutch into gear and set off.

They bumped along the lane to Hanger Farm, a low white washed house that lay close under the base of the Downs. A stocky red-faced man, dressed in corduroy trousers and a striped flannel shirt, was standing in the yard. He was supervising ten or so charity boys who were unloading sacks of fertilisers from a large trailer. Two brats stood on the trailer wrestling sacks hardly smaller than themselves to its edge before lowering them onto the shoulders of other boys. These, staggering under the weight of their loads, ferried them across the yard and through the open double doors of a large barn. There a couple of other sluts were engaged in stacking the sacks.

The yard was full of activity and noise. The pauper brats were being driven hard. The man made free use of his boots and stick to keep them moving. His shouted curses mingled with the sound of blows landing on bare flesh and the squeals and moans of the sweating boys as they laboured under the scorching sun.

"Wonderful sight," Jack Wardle remarked, as Voyle brought the Range Rover to a halt in front of the closed gate to the yard. "It just shows how brats can be set to useful labour if properly managed and vigorously disciplined."

As he was speaking Voyle sounded the horn. The man, who up to then had been unaware of their presence, turned to look at them. Catching sight of Jack Wardle he smiled broadly.

"How are you, Mister Wardle Sir?" he enquired cheerfully.

"Fine Joss, thank you," Jack replied. "I thought you'd be at the races today."

"That I would Sir but a load of fertiliser arrived yesterday and they want to pick up the trailer this evening so I've got to see the damn thing unloaded today. And you know what these sodding brats are like. You've got to be on top of them, driving them all the time or they just sit around playing with themselves, lazy, filthy minded little brutes."

As he spoke he lashed out with his boot at a passing boy catching the brat on its rump.

"Keep working you idle little turd," he shouted fiercely, "Just because I'm talking to a gentleman doesn't mean you can start taking a holiday."

"Bad luck Joss. I was wondering if you mind us taking the Rang Rover through your yard and out onto the Downs to watch that part of the race."

"Of course you can Sir. Just wish I could spare the time to watch it myself."

"You, are you blind?" the man grabbed a boy by the neck as he stumbled past him on the way back to the trailer to pick up another load. "Can't you see Mister Wardle is waiting for someone to open the gate. Get down there now at the double."

He swung the brat round and brought his cudgel down hard across the boy's narrow shoulders. The brat staggered under the force of the blow and then ran stumbling down the yard to the gate. He wrenched it open and dropped to his knees pushing his face down into the dirt and dust of the yard as Voyle drove past him.

"You'd better put it in four wheel drive Voyle," Jack announced as they began the steep ascent of the Downs.

Voyle, who had already done so while they were waiting at the gate, dropped into second gear and accelerated.

Voyle stopped the Range Rover by the grass ramp that formed the outer rampart of Hawsburry Top. Jack jumped from the Four-by-Four and scrambled up the bank. A covey of partridge rose whirring at his feet. Mark, still recovering from the shaking he had got as the Range Rover had bumped and skidded up the hill, followed more soberly.

The view from Hawsburry Top was a famous one. The whole expanse of the Downs with its closely cropped green grass dotted with sheep stretched out in front of them shimmering in the heat of the sun. Behind them was the deep valley of the Vale of Dingle, its broad bottom covered with lush meadows and orchards and dotted with whitewashed farms and tiny cottages. The tall spire of St Mary's and the only slightly lower tower of St George's with the houses and shops of Muggleton clustered round them were clearly visible. Mark could make out the big house at Dingley Dell with its acres of carefully tended park land and formal gardens and the still waters of the lake glittering in the sunlight. It was a tranquil scene that reflected the centuries of ordered life and effort that had been spent creating it. It was Mark thought a fitting monument to the generations who had lived and worked in the Vale of Muggleton and to those who had tamed and set to useful labour the irresponsible and anti-social elements that existed in every community. Here if anywhere was the justification of the charity boy system.

"Here they come," Jack cried excitedly bringing Mark's reflections to an abrupt conclusion.

Far over to their left, where the unfenced road breasted the escarpment the first of the racing carts appeared. Its team of pony boys laboured to draw it to the top of the final gentle slope before turning off the road and onto the open Downs. A flight of grey plover rose at their feet and wheeled away from them a pale silver crescent against the cloudless sky. Although the ground was firm and level the cart seemed hardly to pick up speed.

Jack focused his glasses on it.

"That team's blown," he said offering his glasses to Mark.

Indeed with the aid of the glasses Mark could see that this was clearly so. The two pony boys, although strong well made young animals, had given all they had to offer. Bodies running with sweat, knees raw and bloody from where they had stumbled and fallen on the tarmac road, they could manage now no more than a shambling trot. He could see their jockey glancing back over his shoulder as he flailed the shoulders of his exhausted team with his whip in a desperate and unavailing effort to raise their pace. Behind them more and more racing traps were appearing as they reached the summit of the Downs. Some were in a hardly better state than the first team but others, more skilfully driven or better schooled, as soon as they reached the crest managed to lengthen their stride.

There were six teams strung out along the top of the Downs when Oblonsky's pair of coal black pony girls burst into view. They emerged onto the Downs at a sharp canter, apparently undaunted by the long steep climb up the side of the valley. Hardly a foot separated the back of Oblonsky's trap and the end of the single shaft of Jack Wardle's. So close were they that it seemed that Merlin and Lucifer's knees were sure to hit the tail board of the leading trap. It was clear though that Richard Smythe was too skilful a driver to let that happen. In a well-judged display of carriage work he kept his trap well placed behind Stefan Oblonsky until they were clear of the road. Then, with the firm grass of the Downs under his brats' feet, he eased them out to one side and with a single flick of his whip sent them surging forward. For a moment it looked as though he would draw ahead but Stefan, spotting the danger, responded in kind. At first it was a repeat of the race up the meadow on the far side of the Dingle River. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, would challenge and begin to draw ahead but always, when that happened, the laggard would counter with a burst of speed and would draw level again. Then it seemed almost as though the two jockeys, Stefan and Richard, accepted that they could not get the better of each other, or perhaps they had both decided that the time was not yet ripe for final test. The two teams ceased to challenge each other but raced together across the close cropped turf matching each other pace by pace, stride by stride, firm, well muscled, black and nut brown legs pounding the ground together.

If neither team could get the better of the other both far out matched all the rest. One by one, running wide, they caught up and over took those ahead of them. By the time they had passed Hawsburry Top and were ready to join the road to take them back down into the valley only one racing cart was ahead of them and they were gaining steadily on it.

"Come on," Jack shouted hurling himself down the grass bank to where the Range Rover stood. "Come on we must get back to see the finish."

Voyle already had the engine running and he was moving off even as Jack and Mark scrambled into the vehicle. A brat had the gate ready open for them at Hanger Farm and they drove through without stopping. Urged on by Jack Wardle, Voyle drove through the narrow lanes to the race ground at break neck speeds. Mark was thankful that the roads were more or less deserted with all the people who could do so being at the races. Brats were not of course a problem, being agile and alert. Walking or running they could hear an approaching car and were expected to jump for the hedge. If they had met another car though, travelling at those speeds and on such winding roads with no room for manoeuvre, a crash and a nasty one would have been inevitable.

Back at the racecourse they tumbled out of the Range Rover before it had even stopped moving. Mark could see the two racing traps, hardly more than moving dots about half way down the road that ran in a series of hair pin bends from the valley floor to the summit of the Downs. In front of them still was a single racing cart. Indeed it seemed to him that if anything it had increased its lead.

"I think that one will come to grief pretty soon," Jack Wardle said peering through his field glasses. "Here Mark you have a look."

Through the glasses Mark could see the trap yawing wildly as the two brats ran full tilt down the steep road driven on both by its weight and the drivers whip. He supposed that the jockey, knowing the two teams behind him were stronger and fresher than his, was deliberately taking the risk of going off the road in the hope of putting so much distance between himself and his pursuers so that, by the time he reached the base of the scarp, he would be so far ahead of them to be un-catchable. It was a gamble that was unlikely to succeed. Indeed even as he watched the trap in negotiating a hair pin bend skidded wide. Its wheels went off the road on the outside of the bend. The brats were dragged sideways as the shaft swung inwards, bare feet scrabbling in the gravel as they fought for purchase. For a moment the cart seemed to hang there off the road. The driver took the opportunity to jump clear. The brats blinkered and harnessed to the racing-cart had no such opportunity. The weight of the cart dragged them inexorably backwards until, the point of balance being reached, it tipped and it and the brats, somersaulted and came rolling together down the near perpendicular slope.

Mark did not follow the trap in its fall to the base of the scarp. It was now out of the race and the free boy driving it was unscathed so there was nothing more to bother about. As for the brats they would probably be all right. Brats were generally tough and durable. They needed to be to survive. A few cuts and bruises together with, at the worst, perhaps a broken limb or a cracked rib – nothing the boy vet could not put right. Instead he swung the glasses back up the road. He could see on the road behind Jack Wardle's and Ivan Oblonsky's traps three more teams but they were all well back. The raise for the Baron Corvo Cup was clearly now between those two teams alone.

Down the hill they came at a sharp but safe pace. Having got this far they were neither of going to risk loosing all through some reckless accident. As before Stefan Oblonsky in his father's black and red colours led with Richard Smythe sporting Jack Wardle's blue and white content to keep Merlin and Lucifer tucked in tight behind.

All this changed the instant they reached the bottom of the scarp. As they swung off the road onto the long gentle grass slope back down to the Dingle River both boys lashed their brats up into a full gallop. There was no question now of conserving strength and energy. Now the brats had to give all that they had and a bit more as well in the service of their masters. Mark could see Richard's and Stefan's arms moving as they swung their whips mercilessly lacing their brat's bare backs with the metal tipped thongs to get the last ounce of effort out of them.

The two teams dashed together down the slope to the river in a wild unrestrained gallop. They came to the bank and plunged down it into the river. The water came up to the brats' knees but they did not slacken pace. They came to the opposite bank and Mark could see the two teams straining against their harnesses as, urged on by the frequent cracking of their drivers' whips, they dragged the traps up the steep slope out of the river.

Now they were in the final stretch of the race, a three mile [5km] up hill straight that would test already aching legs and straining lungs to the full. Although both teams were still running well Mark knew they must by now be close to total exhaustion. They had covered ten miles [16km] under the broiling sun including the long haul to the top of the Downs. They had three more up hill miles to run. Now the skill and determination of the individual jockeys would be decisive. It was up to them to force their brats to find some last reserves of energy that would take them to the finishing line.

Mark's throat was dry with excitement and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. This would have been in his opinion the most exciting part of the race even if it was only a simple test of endurance and especially so on this occasion when the two leading teams were so evenly matched. His heart raced as he watched the two light carts bounding together over the grass, the young drivers slim and upright, goading their teams on with frequent cracks of their long whips, the two pairs of strong young brats, straining their hearts out, bare chests heaving with effort, naked bodies slicked with sweat, vying with each other in the service of their masters.

But Mark knew that there was another and more exacting a test to be faced by the brats. He knew that and the rest of the spectators who were beginning to roar the teams on to the finish knew it as well. The brats did not, for the rules allowed them to compete only once in the race and forbade their being trained for this particular aspect of it. A pony boy isolated from his fellows by the deliberate destruction of his hearing could learn only through what he saw and felt himself.

Now even the power of sight was denied the brats by their blinkers. They did not see the thin wall of flame that sprung up ahead of them as a steward ignited the narrow runnel filled with a mixture of paraffin and diesel oil that ran across the race track a mile or so before the finishing line.

Mark had often wondered what the brats felt as they drew near the band of flames. It was not in fact very much more of a barrier than the burning hoop through which tigers were made to jump in old-fashioned circuses. If the brats took it at speed it would do no more than slightly scorch them. They however were not to know this. They could not see anything. As they approached they would feel the heat of the flames against their bare flesh increase. For all they knew and could see they were being driven into a fire where they would die in agony and there was nothing in their past experience that would tell them that this was unlikely to be their fate. It was hard to imagine the increasing terror of a brat as he drew nearer the flames, the steel tipped lash ripping his shoulders as his driver whipped him on, the metal tearing at his mouth as he fought against the bit in an attempt to swerve away from the heat. It was a test of the determination and strength of the jockey and of the submissiveness of the brats. Mark had no doubt that Merlin and Lucifer, schooled by that exemplary disciplinarian Jack Wardle, would pass it with flying colours. He could never remember a pony boy of Jack's balking at the flames and his old friend had certainly not relaxed his stern and exemplary schooling of his brats over the years. As for Oblonsky's ebony girls, he was not certain but so far nothing in their performance suggested that they had been subjected to less stringent training than the boys.

The two pairs of brats rushed on towards where the flames, orange and read with a grey cloud of smoke above, licked upwards. It looked to Mark as though, as they approached nearer to the fire, both teams showed small signs of mutiny but the jockeys hauled on their reigns forcing them to keep their heads towards the flames and remorselessly whipped then onwards.

The two teams reached the line of fire at the same moment and without pausing dashed though it. Mark glanced quickly at Jack Wardle who flushed with pride and excitement was shouting his encouragement to his team.

Now the two carts were close enough for Mark to hear the rumbling of their wheels, the pounding of the brats bare feet on the ground and rising over all the crack of the jockeys' whips as they lashed their teams on. Still the two pairs of brats were running neck and neck. There did not seem to be an inch in it. They were so close now that Mark could hear the rasping breath of the brats as they dragged air down into their tortured lungs.

Mark fixed his eyes on the straight white line drawn across the turf that marked the finish of the race. The rule was the winning team was the one to whom the brat belonged whose foot first touched the ground on the far side of the line. Was it to be a black foot in which case Oblonsky's team had won the day or a brown one which would mean Jack Wardle had at last fulfilled his ambition of bringing back the Corvo Challenge Cup to Dingley Dell Manor. It could it seemed to Mark be either and then two bare brown feet, one right, one left, simultaneously reached over the line.

Merlin and Lucifer still keeping perfect time after thirteen miles [21km] of the most gruelling running had won the Corvo Cup for their master.

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