"Now is he nate! What was I saying!" exulted the old farmer.
"Lyney! Lyney!" roared the faithful gallery, as the leaders hustled round the second flag and went away up the course.
"Up, Kenny!" replied the raucous tenor of Peter Lynch in solitary defiance.
Last of all, the grey horse, who would plough the rocks, came on indomitably, and made, as before, a bee-line for the river. Here, however, he was confronted by a demonstration hurriedly arranged by his friends, who advanced upon him waving tall furze-bushes, with which they beat him in the face. The grey horse changed his mind with such celerity that he burst his girths; some one caught him by the head, while his rider hung precariously upon his neck; some one else dragged off the saddle, replanted his jockey upon his broad bare back, and speeded him on his way by bringing the saddle down upon his hind-quarters with an all-embracing thump.
"It's only the age he wants," said a partisan. "If they'd keep him up to the practice, he'd be a sweeper yet!"
Tumult at the end of the course, and a pistol-shot, here announced that the race was over.
"Lyney have it!" shouted some men, standing on the fence by the water-jump.
"What happened Kenny?" bawled Peter Lynch.
"He was passing the flag and he got clung in the pole, and the next man knocked him down out of the pole!" shouted back the Field Telegraph.
"Oh pity!" said the old farmer.