"Take her along at three-quarter speed till you get round them goss-bushes," growled Old Mat. "And when you feel the hill against you shove her for a furlong. Don't ride her out. And no fancy pranks, mind."
"And sit still," said the girl.
"Jerry, you take him along," continued the trainer.
The lads made sundry guttural noises in their throats, leaned forward as though to whisper in their horses' ears, and stole easily away.
A flash of swift feet, a diminishing thunder of hooves, and the pair made a broad sweep round the gorse-clump and came racing home.
Once the girl spoke.
"Keep your hands quiet," she ordered deeply.
Opposite them Jerry took a pull, but Albert and the mare went thundering past the watching group, the lad's fair head bowed over his horse's withers. He had her fairly extended, yet going well within herself, her head tucked into her chest.
On the ridge behind them he steadied to a walk, jumped off, and led the mare, breathing deep and flinging the foam abroad, down to the party.
"That's a little bit o' better," muttered the old man. "She can slip it. That lad'll ride yet, Boy."