My Racing Adventures 



murmured consolingly, " I must now push on a 

 trifle faster, or the cupboard will be bare when I 

 get there, and I wouldn't disappoint old Mother 

 Hubbard for the world." 



He wished me luck, and I pushed forward 

 accordingly, anxious (so to speak) to give the 

 little dog a bone. In this case he was doing 

 something to deserve it. The cry was still 

 " for'ard on," with no chance for those who were 

 stone-cold in the rear, and with no time to pick 

 up the pieces. It was an old story — the fox in 

 the next parish and hounds in the next field. 



Galloping on like a lion and jumping like a 

 stag, " Grudon " went to the front as soon as he 

 was wanted ; and he remained there. He was 

 never at fault for a moment. The only mistake 

 he made was about 200 yards from the winning- 

 post, with his race well won, when he jumped a 

 footpath across the course and gave me a bit 

 of a shock. " To be wrecked now," I thought, 

 "just in sight of land, with a toe almost on 

 shore — it would be too terrible for words." 



And I was glad that there were no more foot- 

 paths to be jumped as though they were swollen 

 torrents. Afterwards all was plain sailing. We 

 won comfortably, as history records, and neither of 

 us was greatly distressed. Somebody mentioned 



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