The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book, while the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. “I like to see a bit of pace myself,” he ventured.
The fat man sat on him heavily. “You don't call that pace, do you?” he said. “He was going dead slow.”
Various other competitors did their turn round the ring, some propping and bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing at their fences; not one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves into difficulties by changing feet or misjudging the distance, and were loudly applauded by the crowd for “cleverness” in getting themselves out of the difficulties they had themselves created.
A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few, and the task of deciding was entered on.
“I have kept a record,” said the little man, “of how they jumped each fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make and shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that Homeward Bound is the best, with Gaslight second.”
“Homeward Bound!” said the fat man. “Why, the pace he went wouldn't head a duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets of stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at 'em.” Here he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note “No. II.”, mistook it for “Number Eleven”, and said: “I want Number Eleven to go another round.”
The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling and snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn.
“What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?” he said.
“Why,” said the ring steward, “you said you wanted him.”
“Well,” said the fat man, “if I said I wanted him I do want him. Let him go the round.”