Pharmacist appeared to be galloping along with relative ease in about third place of the eight runners as they passed the grandstand on the first circuit. But only when they started down the hill towards the finishing straight for the last time did the race unfold properly, and the pace pick up.
Pharmacist seemed to be still going quite well and even jumped to the front over the second-last. Ian began to breathe a little more easily, but then the horse appeared to fade rapidly, jumping the final fence in a very tired manner and almost coming to a halt on landing. He was easily passed by the others on the run-in up the hill, and he crossed the finish line in last place, almost walking.
I didn't know what to say.
"Oh God," said Ian. "He can't run at the Festival, not now."
Pharmacist certainly did not look like a horse that could win a Gold Cup in six weeks' time.
Ian stood rigidly behind the sofa, his white-knuckled hands gripping the corduroy fabric to hold himself upright.
"Bastards," he whimpered. "I'll kill the bastards who did this."
I was not the only angry young man in Lambourn.
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