The Amateur Gentleman

"....very mysterious person," Sir Mortimer was saying, "nobody

knows him, devilish odd, eh, Tressider? Tufton Green dubbed him the

'Galloping Countryman,'--what do you think of the name?"

"Could have suggested a better, curse me if I couldn't, yes, Carnaby,

oh damme! Why not 'the Prancing Ploughman,' or 'the Cantering

Clodhopper'?" Here Sir Mortimer laughed loudly, and the thinnish,

youngish gentleman giggled again.

Barnabas frowned, but looking down at the red rose upon his breast,

he smiled instead, a little grimly, as he settled his feet in the

stirrups, and shortening his reins, sat waiting, very patiently. Not

so "The Terror." Patient, forsooth! He backed and sidled and tossed

his head, he fidgeted with his bit, he glared viciously this way and

that, and so became aware of other four-legged creatures like himself,

notably of Sir Mortimer's powerful gray near by, and in his heart he

scorned them, one and all, proud of his strength and might, and sure

of himself because of the hand upon his bridle. Therefore he snuffed

the air with quivering nostril, and pawed the earth with an

impatient hoof,--eager for the fray.

Now all at once Sir Mortimer laughed again, louder than before, and

in that same moment his gray swerved and cannoned lightly against

"The Terror," and--reared back only just in time to avoid the

vicious snap of two rows of gleaming teeth.

"Damnation!" cried Sir Mortimer, very nearly unseated, "can't you

manage that brute of yours!" and he struck savagely at "The Terror"

with his whip. But Barnabas parried the blow, and now--even as they

stared and frowned upon each other, so did their horses, the black

and the gray, glare at each other with bared teeth.

But, here, a sudden shout arose that spread and spread, and swelled

into a roar; the swaying line of horsemen surges forward, bends,

splits into plunging groups, and man and horse are off and away--the

great Steeplechase has begun.

Half a length behind Carnaby's gray gallops "The Terror," fire in

his eye, rage in his heart, for there are horses ahead of him, and

that must not be. Therefore he strains upon the bit, and would fain

lengthen his stride, but the hand upon his bridle is strong and

compelling.

On sweeps the race, across the level and up the slope; twice Sir

Mortimer glances over his shoulder, and twice he increases his pace,

yet, as they top the rise, "The Terror" still gallops half a length

behind.

Far in advance races Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman in

sandy whiskers, hotly pressed by the Marquis, and with eight or nine

others hard in their rear; behind these again, rides the Viscount,

while to the right of Barnabas races Slingsby on his long-legged

sorrel, with the rest thundering on behind. And now before them is

the first jump--a hedge with the gleam of water beyond; and the

hedge is high, and the water broad. Nearer it looms, and

nearer--half a mile away! a quarter! less! Tressider's horse rises

to it, and is well over, with the Marquis hard on his heels. But now

shouts are heard, and vicious cries, as several horses, refusing,

swerve violently; there is a crash! a muffled cry--some one is down.

Then, as Barnabas watches, anxious-eyed, mindful of the Viscount's

injured arm--"Moonraker" shoots forward and has cleared it gallantly.