"Ah, what's in it but the full of a few tin cans!" said my adherent.
"Well, for all, it knocked a good lep out o' Rambling Katty: she went mountains over it!"
"Look south! Look south! They're coming on again, and only five o' them in it——"
The cheering was hotter this time, and it was entirely characteristic that it was the riders who were shouted for and not the horses.
"They'll win now this turn—there's three o' them very thick, that's a nice tidy race," said the old farmer.
"Good boy, Kenny! Go on, Kenny!" bellowed some one on a lower ledge.
"Who's second, coming up to the flag now?" panted Philippa, who was hanging on to the collar of my coat and trying to see over my shoulder.
"That's Jimmy Kenny," responded the man below, turning a black-muzzled face up towards us, his light eyes gleaming between their black lashes in the sunshine, like aquamarines. I recognised Peter Lynch, whom we had met earlier in the day.
"It's young Kenny out of the shop," explained the old farmer to me; "he rides very nate."
No one was found to endorse his opinion. The horses came on, sweating and blowing, the riders, by this time very red in the face, already taking to their whips. By some intricate process of jostling, young Kenny got the inside place at the first flag.