“Wood-Pigeon ... chucks his rider into the field before him.”
Thus they near the “double”—the last obstacle of any importance. It consists of two ditches, and a strong staked-and-bound fence on a bank. No horse can fly it all in his stride, after galloping nearly four miles. Perhaps that is the reason why Stripes, who knows he is on a quick one as well as fast one, shoots a little to the front, and comes at it at such an awful pace, seducing his two adversaries, by the force of example, into the same indiscretion. Crasher, who never “loses his stupidity,” as he calls his presence of mind, diverges for a rail that he spies where the ditch is narrowest, takes the chance of breaking that or being killed, and going at it forty-miles-an-hour, smashes it like paper, and succeeds, as Chance rises not an inch, in covering both ditches at a fly. He lands almost abreast of Luxury, who has struck back at the fence with the rapidity and activity of a cat.
Mr. Sawyer, though remembering the place under the tree, dare not pull his horse off enough, lest he should lose too much ground, and Wood-Pigeon, who is a little blown, attempting to do it all at once, lands with both fore-feet in the farther ditch, chucks his rider into the field before him, and then rolls over the plum-coloured jacket in an extremely uncomfortable form. The horse rises, looking wild and scared; not so the rider: “He’s down!” exclaim the crowd; but their attention is so taken up by a slashing race home between Crasher and Stripes, in which the former is out-ridden by the latter, and beaten by half-a-length on the post, that probably no one present but Miss Dove knew who it was that was down. As the plum-colour still lay motionless, poor Cissy turned very pale and sick, and then began to cry.
Our friend was not dead, however, very far from it—only stunned, and his collar-bone broken. He recovered sufficiently to be taken past the Doves’ carriage before Cissy had done drying her eyes; and although he was not able to join the dinner-party at his hotel, with which the day’s sports concluded, and at which an unheard-of quantity of champagne was consumed, I have been credibly informed that he partook of luncheon within less than a fortnight at Dove-cote Rectory, and was seen afterwards with his arm in a sling, taking a tête-à-tête walk to look for violets with the daughter of the house.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE MATCH
Lounging past Tattersall’s one baking day in June, I had the good fortune to encounter Mr. Savage, apparently as busily employed as myself in the agreeable occupation of doing nothing. If you have ever been addicted to the fascinating pursuit of fox-hunting, you will understand how, even in London, the presence of a fellow-enthusiast is as a draught of water to a pilgrim in the desert sand. Linking arms, we turned unconsciously down the yard, and were soon mingling with the motley crowd who fill that locality on a sale-day.
“Any horses you know to be sold here?” I asked, as we stepped into the office for a list.
“None but Sawyer’s,” answered Mr. Savage; “pretty good nags, too. I shall bid for one of them myself.”