86 My First Steeple-chaser. 



Master Tom very closely, and had seen him pull up and leave 

 the field, when old Dot-and-Go-One was full of running. 

 They, moreover, knew very well that the old man (his uncle) 

 had always some good reason for what he was doing, and it did 

 not surprise them in the least when the entries for the Findon 

 Steeple Chase " came out" in the county paper a fortnight before 

 the race to see in the list of fifteen entries Mr. 's br. g. Dot-and- 

 Go-One, aged, blue body, white sleeves and black cap. The mystery 

 of the brown screw was partly cleared up, but no one was a bit the 

 wiser as to his capabilities. He was never seen out in the field 

 again after the entries were published, for his owner declared in the 

 words of the old Yorkshire trainer that, save a little gentle exercise on 

 his own farm, " the old horse should never sweat again till he sweated 

 for the brass." However, it was nothing new for the old man to 

 run a screw and get beaten ; and the two cracks of the hunt the 

 one a magnificent chestnut gelding by Priam, belonging to a farmer 

 who had won this steeple-chase in the two previous years, and the 

 other a wiry little bay mare, nearly thorough-bred, the property of 

 a half-pay captain were made hot favourites, and backed at very 

 short odds against the field. 12 to I could be had about any other, 

 and two or three who placed unlimited confidence in the old man's 

 judgment went about quietly picking up these odds wherever they 

 could get them about the screw ; and although it was never a very 

 heavy betting race, one young fellow, "just out," who had taken 

 great liberties with the horse, in consequence of a trifling dispute he 

 had with Tom about a favourite hunter which he rode, and which 

 Tom had declared to be nothing better than a pig, found himself upon 

 the eve of the race to stand to win 5oo/. on either of the favourites, 

 but to lose about i^oo/. if Dot-and-Go-One pulled through, of 

 which 3oo/. would find its way into Tom's pocket. 



The little village of Findon lay in the best and stifFest-enclosed 

 part of our hunt, about twelve miles from us. The village itself 

 stood on a gentle rise, and the old ivy-covered church-tower was a 

 landmark for miles. The snug parsonage, embedded in a clump of 

 large elms, where the rooks had held undisputed sway for centuries, 



