The noisy bell at length summons the scattered forces
to the post, and the variegated riders form into as good a line as
circumstances will allow. Just as Mr. Sponge turns his horse's head Lucy
hands him her little silver sherry-flask, which our friend drains to the
dregs. As he returns it, with a warm pressure of her soft hand, a pent-up
flood of tears burst their bounds, and suffuse her lustrous eyes. She turns
away to hide her emotion; at the same instant a wild shout rends the
air--'W-h-i-r-r! They're off!'
Thirteen get away, one turns tail, and our friend in the Lincoln green is
left performing a _pas seul_, asking the rearing horse, with an oath, if he
thinks 'he stole him'? while the mob shout and roar; and one wicked wag, in
coaching parlance, advises him to pay the difference, and get inside.
But what a display of horsemanship is exhibited by the flyers! Tongs comes
off at the first fence, the horse making straight for a pond, while the
rest rattle on in a mass. The second fence is small, but there's a ditch on
the far side, and Pusher and Gander severally measure their lengths on the
rushy pasture beyond.
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