we proceed to
criticize the three animals brought to the post, and to agree that
Captain Lovell's Parachute is far the best-looking of the lot; or, as
Sir Guy Scapegrace says to the well-pleased owner, "If make and shape
go for anything, Frank, she ought to beat them, as far as they can
see."

Sir Guy is _chaperoning_ a strange-looking party of men and women, who
have been very noisy since luncheon-time. He is attired in a
close-shaved hat (which he had the effrontery to take off to me, but I
looked the other way), a white coat, and a red neckcloth, the usual
flower in his mouth being replaced for the occasion by a large cigar.
Captain Lovell hopes "I admire his mare--she has a look of Brilliant
from here, Miss Coventry. 'Baby Larkins' of the Lancers is to ride;
and The Baby will do her justice if any one can. He's far the best of
the young ones now."

"Do you mean his name is 'Baby'?" said I, much amused, "or that you
call him so because he is such a child? He looks as if he ought to be
with mamma still." "We always call him 'Baby' in the Lancers,"
explained Frank, "because he joined us so very _young_. He is
nineteen, though you would guess him about twelve; but he's got the
brains of a man of sixty and the nerves of a giant. Ah! Parachute, you
may kick, old girl, but you won't get rid of _that_ child!"

And sure enough "The Baby" sat like a rock, with a grim smile, and
preserving throughout a silence and _sang froid_ which nothing seemed
able to overcome. Two more seedy-looking animals made up the entry.
The lamer one of the two was ridden by a stout major with a redundancy
of moustaches, the other by a lanky cornet of Heavy Dragoons, who
seemed not to know where on earth to dispose of his arms and legs,
besides finding his cap somewhat in his way, and being much
embarrassed with his whip. They gallop up and down before starting,
till I wonder how any galloping can be left for the race; and after a
futile attempt or two they get away, The Baby making strong running,
the stout Major waiting closely upon his infantine antagonist, while
the long cornet, looming like a windmill in the distance, brings up
the rear.

"Parachute still making running," says John, standing erect in his
stirrups, his honest face beaming with excitement. "Woa, horse!--Stand
still, White-Stockings--now they reach the turn, and The Baby takes a
pull--Gad, old Ganymede's coming up. Well done, Major--no, the old
one's flogging. Parachute wins