est 'unter."

The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book,
while the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. "I like to see a
bit of pace myself," he ventured.

The fat man sat on him heavily. "You don't call that pace, do you?" he
said. "He was going dead slow."

Various other competitors did their turn round the ring, some propping
and bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing at their fences;
not one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves into difficulties
by changing feet or misjudging the distance, and were loudly applauded
by the crowd for "cleverness" in getting themselves out of the
difficulties they had themselves created.

A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few, and the task
of deciding was entered on.

"I have kept a record," said the little man, "of how they jumped each
fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make
and shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that Homeward
Bound is the best, with Gaslight second."

"Homeward Bound!" said the fat man. "Why, the pace he went wouldn't head
a duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets
of stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at
'em." Here he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note "No. II.",
mistook it for "Number Eleven", and said: "I want Number Eleven to go
another round."

The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling
and snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn.

"What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?" he said.

"Why," said the ring steward, "you said you wanted him."

"Well," said the fat man, "if I said I wanted him I do want him. Let him
go the round."

The terrified amateur went at his fences with the rashness of despair,
and narrowly escaped being clouted off on two occasions. This put the
fat man in a quandary. He had kept no record, and all the horses were
jumbled up in his head; but he had one fixed idea, to give the first
prize to Gaslight; as to the second he was open to argument. From sheer
contrariness he said that Number Eleven would be "all right if he were
rode better," and the squatter agreed. The little man was overruled, and
the prizes went--Gaslight, first; Spite, second; Homeward Bound, third.

The crowd hooted loudly as Spite's rider came round with the second
ribbon, and small boys suggested to the fat j