ONLY THE MARE 153 



come up level, and is over into the grass beyond 

 a second before us ; but I shoot past and again 

 take up the running. Before us are some posts 

 and rails — rather nasty ones ; the mare tops 

 them, and the chestnut hits them hard with all 

 four legs. Over more grass ; and in front, flanked 

 on either side by a crowd of white faces, is the 

 water-jump. I catch hold of her head and steady 

 her ; and then, she rises, flies through the air, 

 and lands lightly on the other side. A few 

 seconds after I hear a heavy splash ; but when, 

 after jumping the hurdle into the course, I glance 

 over my shoulder, the chestnut is still pounding 

 away behind. As I skim along past the stand the 

 first time round and the line of carriages opposite, 

 I catch sight of a waving white handkerchief : it 

 is Xellie ; and my confused glimpse imperfectly 

 reveals Bertie and Smithers standing on the box 

 of the carriacre. 



I had seen visions of a finish, in which a certain 

 person clad in a light-blue jacket had shot ahead 

 just in the nick of time, and landed the race by con- 

 summate jockeyship after a neck-and-neck struggle 

 for the last quarter of a mile. This did not happen, 

 however, for, as I afterwards learned, the chestnut 

 refused a fence before he had gone very far, and, 

 having at last been got over, came to grief at the 



