A few Notable Mounts 



iron for 3£ miles in a valuable steeplechase. 

 One leather snapped directly after the start, 

 so I did the rest of the journey as mentioned, 

 and, what is more, I won. Did they applaud me 

 until the good old welkin rang again ? Alas, no ; 

 few bouquets were strewn in my path. In sooth, 

 an eminent connoisseur — who knew what he had 

 seen after the procession had turned the corner — 

 informed me with a gesture of despair that I 

 had won too far, thus showing the horse up, and 

 that, as a consequence, he would get more weight 

 for the " National." And that, two, after my 

 riding 3 miles over a big country with one iron ! 

 My sensations were not, for the moment, rhap- 

 sodical. What would have happened — such was 

 my instant reflection — if the girths had burst and 

 I had returned with them in my arms after just 

 winning a desperate race by the quiver of a 

 nostril? In that event I should have been 

 accused probably of tergiversation at the post, 

 or maligned for not having come the shortest 

 way with the girths round my neck. Jockeys 

 have certainly something to put up with when 

 their performances are a trifle less than heroic. 

 " Wasting " and wastefulness are not their only 

 annoyances. 



My ride on " Donative " in a hurdle race at 

 69 



