Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
CHAPTER XII
STEEPLECHASE DAY
In despite of the mirthful converse continued around him, during the small hours, and the complicated condition of his emotions, Wilfred Effingham slept so soundly that the breakfast bell was needed to arouse him. He felt scarcely eager for the fray; but after a shower-bath and that creditable morning meal ever possible to youth, his feelings concerning the problems of life and the duties of the hour underwent a change for the better.
Charles Hamilton, Bob Clarke, and the turf contingent generally had been out at daylight, personally inspecting the steeds that were to bear them to victory and a modest raking in of the odds or otherwise. How much ‘otherwise’ is there upon the race-courses of the world! How often is the favourite amiss or ‘nobbled,’ the rider ‘off his head,’ the certainty a ‘boil over’! Alas, that it should be so! That man should barter the sure rewards of industry for the feverish joys, the heart-shaking uncertainties, the death-like despair which the gambling element, whether in the sport or business of life, inevitably brings in its train!
‘Why, this is life,’ sneers the cynic; ‘you are describing what ever has been, is, and shall be, the worship of the great god “Chance.” The warrior and the statesman, the poet and the priest, the people especially, have from all time placed their lives and fortunes on a cast, differently named, it is true. And they will do so to the end.’
Such causticities scarcely apply to the modest provincial meeting which we chronicle, inasmuch as little money changed hands. What cash was wagered would have been treated with scorn by the layers of the odds and inventors of ‘doubles,’ those turf triumphs or tragedies. Nevertheless, the legitimate excitement of the steeplechase, three and a half miles over a succession of three-railed fences, with the two ‘hardest’ men in the Southern District up, would be a sight to see.
Independently of the exciting nature of the race, an intercolonial element was added. Bob Clarke and his steed were natives of Tasmania; the cool climate and insular position of which have been thought to be favourable to human and equine development. Much colour for the supposition was recognised by the eager gazers of Mr. Bob Clarke and his gallant bay, The Cid.
The former was evidently born for a career of social success. Chivalrous and energetic, with a bright smile, a pleasant manner, his popularity was easy of explanation.
In a ball room, where his modesty was in the inverse ratio to his iron-nerved performances across country, he was a rival not to be despised. Among men he was voted ‘an out-and-out good fellow,’ or a gentlemanlike, manly lad, from whatever side emanated the criticism.
The Cid was a grand horse, if not quite worthy of the exaggerated commendation which his admirers bestowed. A handsome, upstanding animal, bright bay, with black points, he had a commanding-looking forehand, ‘that you could hardly see over,’ as a Tasmanian turfite observed, besides a powerful quarter, with hips, the same critic was pleased to observe, ‘as wide as a fire-place.’ In his trials he was known to have taken leaps equal in height to anything ever crossed by a horse. But a stain in his blood occasionally showed out, in a habit of baulking. Of this peculiarity he gave no notice whatever, sometimes indulging it at the commencement, sometimes at the end of a race, to the anguish of well-wishers and the dismay of backers. A determined rider was therefore indispensable. As on this occasion the only man in the country-side ‘who could ride him as he ought to be ridden,’ according to popular belief, was up, who had also trained him for this particular race, little apprehension was felt as to the result.
Not less confident were the friends of St. Andrew, a different animal in appearance, but of great merit in the eyes of judges. Not so large as his celebrated antagonist, he had the condensed symmetry of the racehorse. Boasting the blue blood of Peter Fin (imported) on his mother’s side, his Camerton pedigree on the other, entitled him to be ticketed ‘thorough-bred as Eclipse.’ A compact and level horse, with the iron legs of the tribe, every muscle stood out, beautifully developed by a careful preparation. His dark chestnut satin coat, his quiet, determined air, the unvarying cleverness with which he performed in private, together with the acknowledged excellence of his rider, rendered the Benmohr division confident of victory.
The others which made up the race were fine animals, but were not entrusted to any great extent with the cash or the confidence of the public. Of these the most formidable was a scarred veteran named Bargo, who had gone through or over many a fence in many a steeplechase. His rider being, like himself, chiefly professional, they were both undoubted performers. But though the old chaser would refuse nothing, his pace had declined through age. It was understood that he was entered on the chance of the two cracks destroying each other, in which case Bargo would be a ‘moral.’
The remaining ones, with the exception of King of the Valley, were chiefly indebted for their entry to the commendable gallantry of aspiring youth. It was something to turn out in ‘the colours’ and other requisites of costume before an admiring crowd; something, doubtless, to see a cherry cheek deepen or pale at the thought of the chances of the day; something to try a local favourite in good company. All honour to the manly and honest-hearted feeling!
Of these, briefly, it may be stated that Currency Lass was a handsome chestnut mare with three white legs, and much of the same colour distributed over her countenance. She was fast, and jumped brilliantly, if she could be prevailed upon not to take off too near to her fences, or ridiculously far off, or to pump all the breath out of her body by unnecessary pulling. The regulation of these tendencies provided a task of difficulty for the rider.
Wallaby and Cornstalk were two useful, hunter-looking bays, which would have brought a considerably higher price in the old land than they were ever likely to do here.
The course had been arranged so that the horses should start near the stand, and going across country take a circuitous course, but eventually finishing at the stand after negotiating a sensational last fence. This was not thought to be good management, but the enclosures admitted of no other arrangement.
The morning’s racing having been got through, everybody adjourned to lunch, it being decided that the important event should take place at three o’clock, after which the excitement of the day might be considered to be over. In spite of the approaching contest, which doubtless contained an element of danger, as it was known that the riders of the two cracks would ‘go at each other for their lives,’ not less than the usual amount of mirth and merriment was observable. The two chief actors were altogether impervious to considerations involving life and limb, although they had seen and suffered what might have made some men cautious.
Bob Clarke had been more than once ‘carried away for dead’ from under a fallen horse, while Charles Hamilton had won a steeplechase after having employed the morning in tracking a friend who had gone out to ‘school’ a young horse, and whom the search-party discovered lying dead under a log fence.
The ladies exhibited a partisanship which they were at no pains to conceal. Bets (in gloves) ran high; while the danger of the imminent race rendered a fair cheek, here and there, less brilliant of hue, and dimmed the sparkle of bright eyes.
‘Oh, I hope no one will get hurt,’ said Christabel Rockley; ‘these horrid fences are so high and stiff. Why can’t they have all flat races? They’re not so exciting, certainly, but then no one can get killed.’
‘Accidents occur in these, you know,’ said Mrs. Snowden, philosophically; ‘and, after all, if the men like to run a little risk while we are looking on, I don’t see why we should grudge them the pleasure.’
‘It seems very unfeeling,’ says the tender-hearted damsel. ‘I shall feel quite guilty if any one is hurt to-day. Poor Mrs. Malahyde, Bob Clarke’s sister, is dreadfully anxious; the tears keep coming into her eyes. She knows how reckless he can be when he’s determined to win.’
‘I fancy Mr. Hamilton’s St. Andrew will win,’ said Mrs. Snowden; ‘he is better bred, they say, and he looks to me so well-trained. What do you think, Mr. Effingham?’
‘I am a thick and thin supporter of the Benmohr stable,’ said Wilfred. ‘The Cid is a grand horse, but my sympathies are with St. Andrew.’
‘I’ll bet a dozen pairs of gloves The Cid wins,’ said Miss Christabel impetuously, looking straight at Mrs. Snowden. ‘He can beat anything in the district when he likes; Mr. Hamilton rides beautifully, but Bob can make any horse win.’
‘My dear child, you are quite a “plunger,”’ said Mrs. Snowden. ‘Doubtless, they will cover themselves with glory. I’m afraid they can’t both win.’
At this moment one of the heroes joined the speakers, sauntering up with a respectful expression of countenance, proper to him who makes a request of a fair lady.
‘Miss Christabel, I have come to ask you to give me one of your ribbons for luck. I see Miss Effingham has decorated Hamilton. It’s only fair that I should have a charm too.’
‘Here it is, if you care for it, Bob!’ said the girl, hastily detaching a ‘cerise’ knot from her dress, while her varying colour told how the slight incident touched an unseen chord beneath the surface; ‘only I wish you were not going to ride at all. Somebody will be killed at these horrid steeplechases yet, I know.’
‘Why, you’re nearly as bad as my sister,’ said the youthful knight reassuringly, and giving his fair monitress an unnecessary look of gratitude, as Wilfred thought. ‘I shan’t let her come on the course next time I ride. There’s the saddling bell. We’ll see whether the pink ribbon or the blue goes farthest.’
The arrangements had been made with foresight, so that beyond the customary galloping across the course for a surcingle at the last moment by a friend in the interests of Currency Lass, a proceeding which aroused Mr. Rockley’s wrath, who publicly threatened her rider that he would bring the matter before the Turf Club, little delay was caused. At length all preliminaries were complete, and high-born St. Andrew passed the stand, shining like a star, with Charles Hamilton, in blue and gold, utterly point devise, on his back. Horse and rider seemed so harmonious, indeed, that a ringing cheer burst from the crowd, and all the throats whose owners inhabited the hills and vales south of the Great Lake shouted themselves hoarse for St. Andrew and Mr. Hamilton.
‘He’s as fit as hands can make him,’ said one of this division – a groom of O’Desmond’s. ‘There’s few of us can put on the real French polish like Mr. Hamilton; he’s a tiger to work, surely; and the little ’oss is fast. I know his time. If that Syd, or whatever they call him, licks ’im to-day, he’ll have his work to do. My guinea’s on St. Andrew.’
‘He’s a good ’un, and a stayer,’ said the man who stood next to him in the closely-packed temporary stand; ‘but there’s a bit of chance work in a steeplechase. The Cid’s a trimmer on the flat, or cross the sticks, but you can’t depend on him. I wouldn’t back him for a shillin’ if young Clarke wasn’t on him. But he’s that game and strong in the saddle, and lucky, as my note would be on a mule if he was up. Here he comes!’
As he spoke, The Cid came by the post at speed, ‘a pipe-opener’ having been thought necessary by his master, and as the grand horse extended himself, showing the elastic freedom of his magnificent proportions, with the perfection of his rider’s seat and figure, standing jockey-like in his saddle, moveless, and with hands down, it was a marvel of equestrian harmony.
The roar of applause with which the crowd greeted the exhibition showed a balance of popularity in favour of horse and rider as the long-repeated cheers swelled and recommenced, not ending indeed until the pair came walking back, The Cid raising his lofty crest, and swinging his head from side to side, as he paced forward with the air of a conqueror.
‘Oh, what lovely, lovely creatures!’ said Annabel Effingham, who had never been to a race meeting before. ‘I had no idea a horse could be so beautiful as St. Andrew or The Cid. Why can’t they both win? I hope Mr. Hamilton will, I’m sure, because he’s our neighbour; but I shall be grieved if The Cid loses. How becoming jockey costume is! And what a lovely jacket that is of Mr. Clarke’s! If I were a man I should be passionately fond of racing.’
‘Bob’s a great deal too fond of it,’ said Mrs. Malahyde, a bright-eyed matron of seven- or eight-and-twenty. ‘I wish you girls would combine and make him promise to give it up. I can’t keep away when he’s going to ride, but it’s all agony with me till I see him come in safe.’
‘When you look at it in that way,’ assented Annabel, ‘it certainly doesn’t seem right, and it’s unfair of us to encourage it. What a pity so many nice things are wrong!’
‘They’re off!’ said Miss Christabel, who had been eagerly watching the proceedings, during which the other performers had severally displayed themselves, receiving more or less qualified ovations, and then finally been taken in charge severely by Mr. Rockley as far as the distance post. ‘They’re off! Oh, don’t say a word till they’re over the first fence!’
All the horses of the little troop had sufficient self-control to go ‘well within themselves’ from the start except King of the Valley and Currency Lass. The mare’s nervous system was so shaken by the thunder of the horse-hoofs and the shouting of the crowd at her introduction to society, that she pulled and tore, and ‘took it out of herself,’ as her rider, Billy Day, afterwards expressed himself, to that extent, that he felt compelled to let her have her head, with a lead over the first fence.
This barrier she at first charged at the rate of a liberal forty miles an hour, with her head up, her mouth open, and such an apparently reckless disregard of the known properties of iron-bark timber, that Billy’s friends began to cast about for a handy vehicle, as likely to be in immediate demand for ambulance work. But whether from the contrarieties said to govern the female sex, or from some occult reason, Currency Lass no sooner had her own way than she displayed unexpected prudence. She slackened pace, and cocking her delicately-pointed ears, rewarded her rider’s nerve and patience by making a magnificent though theatrical jump, and being awfully quick on her legs, was half-way to the next fence before another had crossed the first.
‘Oh, what a lovely jump Currency Lass took!’ said one of the young ladies, ‘and what a distance she is in front of all the rest. Do you think she will win, Mr. Smith? How slowly all the others are going.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ said the critic of the sterner sex. ‘She’s a clever thing, but she can’t stay the distance. Ha! very neatly done indeed. That’s what I call workmanlike. Cornstalk baulks – well done – good jump! All over the first fence, and no one down.’
These latter remarks were called forth by seeing St. Andrew, The Cid, and Bargo charge the fence nearly in line, the latter rather in the rear, and go over with as little haste or effort as if it had been a row of hurdles. Wallaby hit the top rail hard, but recovered himself, and Cornstalk, after baulking once, was wheeled short, and popped over cleverly, without losing ground.
The same style of performance was repeated with so little variation for the next half-dozen leaps, that the eager public began to look with favour upon the enthusiastic Currency Lass, still sailing ahead with undiminished ardour, and flying her leaps like a deer. The sarcastic inquiry, ‘Will they ever catch her?’ commenced to be employed, and the provincial prejudice in favour of a true bushman and a country-trained horse, ‘without any nonsense about her,’ began to gather strength.
But at this stage of the proceedings it became apparent that the struggle between the two cracks could not longer be postponed. With one bound, as it appeared to the spectators, St. Andrew and The Cid were away at speed, their riders bearing themselves as if they had only that moment started for the race.
‘They’re at one another now,’ said Argyll to O’Desmond. ‘We shall see how the Camerton blood tells in a finish.’
‘Don’t you think Charlie’s making the pace too good?’ said Mr. Churbett. ‘I wanted him to wait till he got near the hill, but he said he thought the pace would try The Cid’s temper, and half a mistake would make him lose the race.’
‘They’re both going too fast now, in my opinion,’ said Forbes. ‘One of them will have a fall soon, and then the race is old Bargo’s, as sure as my name’s James.’
‘Oh, what a pretty sight!’ said Mrs. Snowden, as a large fence in full view of the whole assemblage was reached.
The native damsel was still leading, but the distance had visibly decreased which separated her from the popular heroes. All three horses were going best pace, and as the mare cleared the fence cleverly, but with little to spare, pressed by The Cid and St. Andrew, as they took the jump apparently in the same stride, a great cheer burst from the crowd.
‘Well done, Bargo!’ shouted the complimentary crowd, in high good-humour, as the old horse came up, quietly working out his programme, and topping the fence with but little visible effort, followed his more brilliant leaders. The others were by this time considerably in the rear, but took their jumps creditably still. The next fence was known to be the most dangerous in the whole course. The ground was broken and stony, the incline unpleasantly steep, and a small but annoying grip caused by the winter rains interfered with the approach. In the hunting field it would have been simply a matter for careful riding. But here, at the speed to which the pace had been forced, it was dangerous.
‘Why don’t they pull off there?’ muttered Mr. Rockley, virtuously indignant. ‘No one but a madman would go over ground like that as if they were finishing a flat race. That fellow Hamilton is as obstinate as a mule. I know him; he wouldn’t pull off an inch for all the judges of the Supreme Court.’
‘I’m afraid Bob Clarke won’t,’ said John Hampden; ‘that’s the worst of steeplechasing, the fellows will ride so jealous. Well done, The Cid! By Jove! the mare’s down! and – yes – no! – St. Andrew too. Don’t be frightened, anybody,’ as more than one plaintive cry arose from among the carriages on which the ladies stood thickly clustering. ‘Both men up, and no harm done. Hamilton’s away again, but it’s The Cid’s race.’
These hurried observations, made for the benefit of the visibly distressed clientèle of Hamilton, were called forth by the most sensational proceedings which had obtained yet.
As the two rivals came down the slope at the highly improper pace alluded to, they overtook Currency Lass at her fence, which confused that excitable animal. Getting her head from her rider, who had been prudently steadying her across this unpleasant section, with the idea that he would be unaccompanied till he was clear of it, she went at the fence with her usual impetuosity. A gutter threw her out a little; it may be that her wind had failed. It is certain that, taking off too closely to the stiff fence, she struck the top rail with tremendous force, the impetus casting her rolling over on her back into the adjoining paddock, while her rider, fortunately for him, was ‘sent rods and rods ahead of her’ (as a comrade described it), and so saved from being crushed under the fallen horse. The mare rose to her legs trembling and half stunned, glared for one moment at surrounding objects, and then went off at full speed, with flapping stirrups and trailing reins. The Cid had sailed over the fence a yard to the left of her, and was going at his ease, with nothing near him.
Where, then, was St. Andrew? He had also come to grief.
Putting his foot on a rolling stone, he had been unable to clear his leap, though he made a gallant effort. Striking heavily, he went down on the farther side.
His rider, sitting well back, and never for one instant losing his proverbial coolness, was able to save him as much as, under the circumstances, a horse can be saved. Down on nose and knee only went the good horse, his rider falling close to his shoulder, and never relinquishing the reins. Both were on their feet in an instant, and before the crowd had well realised the fact, or the ‘I told you so’ division had breath to explain why St. Andrew must fall if the pace was kept really good, Charlie Hamilton was in the saddle and away, with his teeth set and a determination not to lose the race yet, if there was a chance left. Bargo came up with calculated pace and line, and performed his exercise with the same ease and precision as if he had been practising at a leaping bar. Cornstalk baulked again, and this time with sufficient determination to lose him half a mile. Wallaby gave his rider a nasty fall, breaking his collar-bone and preventing further efforts. While King of the Valley, going reasonably up to this stage, overpowered his rider at last, and hardly rising at his fence, rolled over, and did not rise. He had broken his neck, and his rider was unconscious for twelve hours afterwards. The race therefore lay between The Cid, St. Andrew, and the safe and collected Bargo, coming up pedo claudo, and with a not unreasonable chance, like Nemesis, of appearing with effect at the close of the proceedings.
The next marked division of the course was known as ‘the hill,’ an eminence of no great altitude between two farms, but possessing just sufficient abruptness to make the fence a more than average effort. This ‘rise,’ as the country people called it, lay about three-quarters of a mile from home, and the horse that first came down the long slope which led towards the winning-post, divided from it but by several easy fences, had a strong chance of winning the race.
Before The Cid reached the base of this landmark, still keeping the pace good, but going comparatively at his ease, it was apparent that Hamilton, who had been riding St. Andrew for his life, and had indeed resolved to tax the courage and condition of the good horse to the last gasp, was closing in upon his leader. ‘Sitting down’ upon his horse, Charles Hamilton extorted praise from the assemblage by the determination with which he fought a losing race. He was well seconded by the son of Camerton, as, extending himself to the utmost, he flew fence after fence as if they were so many hurdles.
‘What a pity poor St. Andrew came down at that abominable place!’ said Annabel. ‘I really believe he might have won the race. He was not so far behind Mr. Clarke when he disappeared behind the hill.’
‘He’s only playing with him, I’m afraid,’ said Mr. Hampden kindly. ‘Hamilton and his horse deserve to win, but that fall made too great a difference between horses so evenly matched.’
‘The Cid’s heart’s not in the right place,’ here broke in an admirer of Miss Christabel’s, who had been cut down by the fascinating Bob. ‘You know that, Hampden. I saw him refuse and lose his race, which he had easy in hand, at Casterton. He might baulk at that sidling jump behind the hill yet. It’s a nasty place.’
‘I believe he will too,’ said Fred Churbett, staunch to the Benmohr colours. ‘We ought to see them soon now; they’re a long time coming. Take all the odds you can get, Miss Annabel.’
‘Will you take seven to four, Churbett?’ said Mr. Hampden. ‘I know The Cid’s peculiarities, but I’ll back him out, and my countryman, Bob Clarke, as long as there is a Hereford at Wangarua.’
‘Done!’ said the friendly Fred; ‘and “done” again, Mr. Hampden,’ said Bob’s rival.
Just as the words were finished a great shout of ‘St. Andrew wins, Benmohr for ever!’ arose from the country people as one horse was seen coming down the long, green slope. On the rider could plainly be discovered the blue and golden colours of Charles Hamilton.
‘Baulked, by Jove! the sidling fence was too much for him; thought Bob was sending him along too fast. Deuced uncertain brute; not the real thing; never could stay; nothing like the old Whisker and Camerton strain. Here comes Bargo! By Jove! Hurrah!’
Such comments and condemnations were freely expressed as St. Andrew came sailing along. The concluding cheer, however, was evoked by the apparition of a second horse which followed St. Andrew with a flogging rider, who was evidently making his effort. It immediately became apparent that this was Bargo, whom his rider was ‘setting to with,’ believing that the tremendous pace which St. Andrew had sustained for the last part of the race must now tell upon him. Where, then, was The Cid? Where, indeed? His admirers were dumb; his opponents jubilant. It is the way of the world.
‘Where’s your seven to four now, Mr. Hampden?’ said the youthful partisan.
‘Possibly quite safe; never be quite certain till the numbers are up. Here comes The Cid at last; Bob’s not beaten yet.’
Another sustained shout from the excited crowd showed what a new element of interest this apparition of the lost horseman had added to the race. Bargo, carefully saved, and comparatively fresh, sorely pressed the gallant St. Andrew, whose bolt was nearly shot. Still, struggling gamely to keep his lead, and well held together, he had crossed the third fence from home before he was challenged by Bargo.
But down the hill, at an awful pace, ridden with the desperation of a madman, came The Cid. Bob Clarke, with cap off and reckless use of whip and spur, could not have increased the pace by one single stride had he been going for a man’s life. Had a doomed criminal been standing on the scaffold, ready for the headsman’s axe, did the reprieve of the old romances not be displayed in time, not another second could The Cid have achieved.
‘He’ll do it yet if they’re not too close at the last fence,’ said Hampden, with his usual calmness. ‘I never knew The Cid baulk twice in one race, and he has a terrible turn of speed for a short finish. Bob’s in earnest, I should say.’
That fact was doubted by none who saw him that day. His face was pale; his eyes blazed with a flame which few had ever seen who looked upon the handsome features and pleasant smile of Robert Clarke. The excitement became tremendous. The ladies made emotional remarks – some of pity for his disappointment, some of sympathy with his probable hurts, if he had had a fall. All joined in reprobating the unlucky Cid.
Christabel Rockley alone said no word, but her fixed eyes and pale cheek showed the absorbing interest which the dangerous contest, now deepening to a possible tragedy, had for her.
The furious pace appeared not to interfere with The Cid’s wondrous jumping powers. At the speed he was driven at his fences he must have gone over or through them. He seemed to prefer the former, and cheer after cheer broke the unusual silence as high in air was seen the form of horse and rider, as every fence was crossed but the last, and perhaps the stiffest, a hundred yards from home.
St. Andrew and Bargo were now neck and neck, stride and stride. The indomitable chestnut had begun to roll; the stout but not brilliant Bargo was at his best. As they near the last fence it is evident that The Cid, still coming up with a ‘wet sail,’ is overhauling the pair. The question is, whether St. Andrew is not too near home.
The anxiety of the crowd is intense, the breathless suspense of the friends of the rival stables painful, the fielders are at the acme of excited hope and fear, when St. Andrew and Bargo, closely followed by The Cid, rise at this deciding leap. The chestnut just clears it, with nothing to spare; Bargo, overpaced, strikes heavily, and rolls in the field beyond; Bob Clarke charges the panel on the right like a demon, and, after a deadly neck-and-neck struggle with St. Andrew, who still has fight left, outrides him on the post.
The conclusion of this ‘truly exciting race, covering with glory all concerned therein,’ as the local journal phrased it, was felt to be almost too solemn a matter for the usual hackneyed congratulations. The overwrought emotions of the young ladies rendered a prompt adjournment necessary to side-saddles and vehicles, which, after refreshment supplied to the protagonists, were made ready for the homeward route. Bob Clarke received a congratulatory glance from Christabel Rockley, which no doubt helped to console him, as did such guerdon many a good knight of old, for the dust and dangers of the tourney.
His sister, Mrs. Malahyde, who could hardly have been said either to have seen or enjoyed the thrilling performance, for ‘mamma was lying down crying in the bottom of the dogcart all the time,’ as her little daughter testified, now arranged her bonnet and countenance, and expressed her heartfelt thanks for Bob’s safety.
Charles Hamilton received assurances from the ladies generally, and particularly from his neighbours of The Chase, that his courage and perseverance had been to them astonishing, and beyond all praise; while St. Andrew, beaten only by a head, after all his gallant endeavours to repair ill-luck, was lauded to the skies.
‘Poor dear fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘I wonder if horses ever feel disappointed. He does droop a little, and it was wicked of you to spur him so, Mr. Hamilton. Now that naughty Cid goes swinging his head about as if he was quite proud of himself. How he has been spurred! Dear me!’
‘Yes, and well flogged,’ said one of the Hobart division. ‘Bob said when he baulked behind the hill he could have killed him. However, it will do him good. He took his last fences as if he would never refuse again as long as he lived.’
‘I will just say this, as my calm and deliberate opinion, and I should like to hear any man contradict me,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘that there never was a race better ridden in the colony than Hamilton’s on St. Andrew. If he hadn’t made that mistake at the stony creek he must have had the race easily. His recovering his place was one of the best bits of riding I ever saw.’
