In the first wild scramble he could catch a sight of the colours on which his hopes depended near the front.

On they came like the wind.

A man near shouted the name of Tom's horse--"It's winning," and Tom's head swam at the sound.

On still nearer, and now they have passed.

In the retreating, straggling crowd he can see his horse still, but it seems to be going back instead of forward.