Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



have an egg boiled before I pass the post ? You will 

 like .... 



Come on, little mare, and we'll show this fellow a 

 classic finish. " Always ride the last fence as though 

 it wasn't there " is an old adage. Atta girl, atta girl, 

 atta girl, Hup ! Holy smokes ! we seem to be in the 

 next parish ! Landed a clear length in front ! Race 

 away, my Lady. He's creeping up. Twenty lengths 

 to go. His head is at your girth. Don't let him over- 

 haul us. Ten lengths to go. He's levelling up ! Come 

 on, girl, a final spurt. Five lengths, four, three, two, 

 he's won ! . . . not the Irish Grand National, unfortu- 

 nately, merely my modest five shillings. 



Gosh, I haven't a gasp left ! Hang those cigarettes, 

 anyway ! That reminds me, I'd love a smoke. 



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