1 68 The Ilarkaway Hunt Steeplechases. 



Tom is immensely popular with the natives. Who 

 comes here on the flea-bitten grey ? — why, it can't be- — 

 yes it is — who'd ha' thought it ? — why, it's actually our 

 old friend Charlie Dabber — none the worse for the fracas 

 in the weighing-room — that Mister Dabber as Lord Daisy- 

 field calls him. The Captain's fat housekeeper, Missis 

 Plummer, is there, having been driven over by the gar- 

 dener in a gig, borrowed specially for the occasion. She 

 waves a handkerchief encouragingly to her master as he 

 canters down the course after the others. 



They're off at last. Out with the glasses, and let's 

 look at the Flowers of the Hunt for the last time this 

 season. The first fence is cleared without a mistake. 

 The second, a big one, brings two of them to grief, and 

 now they come to the water-jump. Now for it. Charlie 

 Wildoats is making the running, Tom Chirpington, riding 

 steadily and well, next. Over they go. Well jumped ! 

 Now for the Captain. Go it, Dabber ! The old grey 

 is out of it, that's very clear, but the Captain rides 

 valiantly at the brook for all that. Ha-ha-ha ! roars the 

 crowd, for the grey comes flop into the middle of the 

 brook, chucking the Captain over his head. "Oh ! Cap- 

 tain, dear, deary Captain, say you're not killed — do say 

 you're not killed," screams fat Mrs. Plummer, rushing up 

 to the dismounted sportsman as he emerges from his cold 

 and muddy bath, and embracing him most fervently 

 amidst the uproarious mirth of the company. *' I knew 

 no good would come o' this nasty 'oss-racin' at your time o' 

 life. Come, 'ome along wi' me, come now, there's a 

 good man, do." Up with the glasses again, for the 

 horses are in sight once more. " Four of 'em in it." 

 'Mt's a race, it's a race!" cry the excited lookers-on. 



