Some Day

Last week the Prince of Wales visited a hospital at Brighton, England, stopped to chat with a blind veteran. "Your Highness might help a fellow," said the blind one, "by letting him in on the best bet in the Grand National tomorrow." His Highness smiled, hesitated, suggested Lord Stalbridge's entry, Thrown In, running at odds 100-1 against.

Sporting England flocked to murky Liverpool, there to watch the greatest of steeplechases. By plane, motor, train, boat, cart they came and, despite fabled post-War depression, proved so numerous that luxurious Cunard liner Aurania, 14,000 tons, lying at her dock, became an ephemeral hostelry at a, guinea "and up" per bunk, thus saving many an onlooker from a damp night on the moors or pub floors. The morning brought black skies, torrential rains. Sporting Eng land, drenched, excited, gathered at the famed Aintree course; issued 150,000 prayers for better weather; surveyed the soggy turf and swollen streams with misgivings: hoped their favorites liked mud.

The Earl of Derby, 17th of his line, owner of the broad acres over which the race would be run, technical host to the dripping throng, actual host to His Majesty, looked glum, embarrassed. He had anticipated a pleasant party; heart less elements had interfered.

A downpour of especial violence preceded the parade to the post. Then the King, standing in the Earl of Derby's box, the Prince, ensconced at the Valentine's Brook jump, the cheered host, others of high and low degree saw the sun burst through the clouds, do its belated best. Thirty-seven horses started the agonizing 4 1/2-mile chase. Over stone fence, green hedge, wide ditch and stream, they charged. One by one, sweating, steaming animals with bloodshot eyes found themselves wanting; fell, pitching heartbroken men onto tough shoulderblades. Only seven horses came to the last hurdle, Bovril III, 100-to-1 shot leading, closely pressed by Keep Cool and ten-year-old favorite Sprig. At this point Sprig lent ear to able Jockey Leader, executed a series of super-equine lunges, crossed the finish line a length ahead of Bovril III, two lengths ahead of Bright's Boy who had come up for third money.

The winner, which had competed unsuccessfully on two previous occasions, is the property of Mrs. M. Partridge, 73, by the will of her son, killed in the War. It was his dying wish that Sprig might win a Grand National. Presented to the King after the race, Mrs. Partridge expressed tearful gratitude. "I have always thought," she said, "that the old horse would do it--some day."