"....very mysterious person," Sir Mortimer was saying, "nobody
knows him, devilish odd, eh, Tressider? Tufton Green dubbed him the
'Galloping Countryman,'--what do you think of the name?"
"Could have suggested a better, curse me if I couldn't, yes, Carnaby,
oh damme! Why not 'the Prancing Ploughman,' or 'the Cantering
Clodhopper'?" Here Sir Mortimer laughed loudly, and the thinnish,
youngish gentleman giggled again.
Barnabas frowned, but looking down at the red rose upon his breast,
he smiled instead, a little grimly, as he settled his feet in the
stirrups, and shortening his reins, sat waiting, very patiently. Not
so "The Terror." Patient, forsooth! He backed and sidled and tossed
his head, he fidgeted with his bit, he glared viciously this way and
that, and so became aware of other four-legged creatures like himself,
notably of Sir Mortimer's powerful gray near by, and in his heart he
scorned them, one and all, proud of his strength and might, and sure
of himself because of the hand upon his bridle. Therefore he snuffed
the air with quivering nostril, and pawed the earth with an
impatient hoof,--eager for the fray.
Now all at once Sir Mortimer laughed again, louder than before, and
in that same moment his gray swerved and cannoned lightly against
"The Terror," and--reared back only just in time to avoid the
vicious snap of two rows of gleaming teeth.
"Damnation!" cried Sir Mortimer, very nearly unseated, "can't you
manage that brute of yours!" and he struck savagely at "The Terror"
with his whip. But Barnabas parried the blow, and now--even as they
stared and frowned upon each other, so did their horses, the black
and the gray, glare at each other with bared teeth.
But, here, a sudden shout arose that spread and spread, and swelled
into a roar; the swaying line of horsemen surges forward, bends,
splits into plunging groups, and man and horse are off and away--the
great Steeplechase has begun.
Half a length behind Carnaby's gray gallops "The Terror," fire in
his eye, rage in his heart, for there are horses ahead of him, and
that must not be. Therefore he strains upon the bit, and would fain
lengthen his stride, but the hand upon his bridle is strong and
compelling.
On sweeps the race, across the level and up the slope; twice Sir
Mortimer glances over his shoulder, and twice he increases his pace,
yet, as they top the rise, "The Terror" still gallops half a length
behind.
Far in advance races Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman in
sandy whiskers, hotly pressed by the Marquis, and with eight or nine
others hard in their rear; behind these again, rides the Viscount,
while to the right of Barnabas races Slingsby on his long-legged
sorrel, with the rest thundering on behind. And now before them is
the first jump--a hedge with the gleam of water beyond; and the
hedge is high, and the water broad. Nearer it looms, and
nearer--half a mile away! a quarter! less! Tressider's horse rises
to it, and is well over, with the Marquis hard on his heels. But now
shouts are heard, and vicious cries, as several horses, refusing,
swerve violently; there is a crash! a muffled cry--some one is down.
Then, as Barnabas watches, anxious-eyed, mindful of the Viscount's
injured arm--"Moonraker" shoots forward and has cleared it gallantly.