Spraggon makes a desperate effort to get the
lead; and Sponge, seeing Boville handy, pulls his horse, and lets the
light-weight make play over a rough, heavy fallow with the chestnut. Jack
spurs and flogs, and grins and foams at the mouth. Thus they get half round
the oval course. They are now directly in front of the hill, and the
spectators gaze with intense anxiety;--now vociferating the name of this
horse, now of that; now shouting 'Red jacket!' now 'White!' while the blind
fiddler perseveres with the old melody of--'The Devil among the Tailors.'
'Now they come to the brook!' exclaims Leather, who has been over the
ground; and as he speaks, Lucy distinctly sees Mr. Sponge's gather an
effort to clear it; and--oh, horror!--the horse falls--he's down--no, he's
up!--and her lover's in his seat again; and she flatters herself it was her
sherry that saved him. Splash!--a horse and rider duck under; three get
over; two go in; now another clears it, and the rest turn tail.
What splashing and screaming, and whipping and spurring, and how hopeless
the chance of any of them to recover their lost ground.
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