Gay Lawless

by Helen Mathers; Phil Reeves

"This high jumping is a trick—and the horses who do it, mustn't on any account be hunted, or they lose the knack of flinging themselves over a high bar—and personally I prefer a clever hunter. In fact, the so-called champion hunter class is a misnomer, and putting the qualified hunter classes in the evening is a huge mistake. Of course a hunter ought to be able to jump these fences, as far as height or width are concerned, but it's no part of a hunter's business to jump over white fences under the glare of electric light."

"All the same," said Rensslaer, "I confess that I should like to see the Army devoting itself to the art, as the Italian Army does, and it would be to the good if private and public schools provided ponies, and taught the young idea how to ride, as well as how to shoot. A troop of boy rough-riders would be a lively accompaniment to the corps of sharp-shooters multiplying under Lord Roberts' organisation. The Army here, in buying horses, demands from the farmer horses already highly trained, which is obviously impossible. How different the behaviour of the Italians and the Belgians! The horses they ride are almost exclusively Irish. The dealers resident in Ireland are continually shipping young Irish horses, which go straight to the colonels of the several regiments, who get them trained; the officers buy and train their private horses in a similar way, and regard the education of a horse as one of, if not quite, the best of sports."

"Anyway," grunted Tom Bulteel, "if England has something to learn from Continental rivals in methods of training, we may find consolation in the fact that it is from British equine flesh, bone, and blood that competitors abroad have been able to produce the splendid animals that are winning the judges' encomiums to-day. Their clean action in harness, and over the sticks betrays their British origin, whatever may be the nationality of their owners."

"Bravo, Tom!" cried Effie, and slipped her little hand in his.

"And so I repeat," said Torn sturdily, "that it is not fair to judge us in a place ringing with noisy demonstrations, that are dead against a high-class hunter giving his best form. The foreign or American show hunter is used to such conditions, and the consequence is, that many a moderate horse gets forward simply on account of his jumping abilities. Far too much importance is attached to what is after all trick jumping, and, as I said before, it is by no means necessary in a hunter."

And so with ups and downs, principally downs with Gay—and her face as she sat ignored at Chris's side told more than she knew—the time passed, and the last and "championship" night of the great show arrived.

It was a scene of extraordinary brilliancy, and even more than the rest of the spectators, Chris was wrought to the highest pitch of excitement during the high-jumping contest at the close of the evening, when gradually twenty-two horses were fined down to two—the one ridden by the Dorset yeoman, the other by Belgium's champion jump rider, who had acquitted himself so grandly throughout.

When Lord Lonsdale offered a prize to whichever could clear 7 feet, and the Belgian's horse came along like lightning, and with a mighty spring into the air, cleared the obstacle with an inch or two to spare, Chris felt the blood course like warm milk through his veins—in fancy he rose to the jump, and the ecstacy, the oneness of horse and man in those moments, were his.

The Englishman put his horse at the bar, failing at the first attempt, but succeeding at the second, going over beautifully. They both cleared 6 feet 9 inches, but neither succeeded at 7 feet, and were declared tied, the prize being divided, and the two horses parading round the ring amid a scene of the greatest enthusiasm. Suddenly Chris turned—in that moment of expansion, he wanted Gay to share it with him, but she was not there. She and the others had slipped away without his noticing; no doubt they had all gone down to the stables, and he rose eagerly to follow them.

He wanted to congratulate Rensslaer on his triumphs, to tell him that he accepted his offer of St. Swithin's, and if he got no opportunity of speaking to her to-night, next morning he would call on dear little Gay and tell her that his love for her had triumphed. If she had only known it, Chris was proving his right to the title of hero, for this was his real farewell to the sport he so intensely loved—if he had seemed to neglect Gay, when she knew the reason, she would forgive him....