"Pity Lossie's not here, eh, Gay?" whispered Chris in an aside. "Let's go and have some lunch—that is, you can have some, while I will sit and watch you longingly, and dream of my next meat dinner!"
They returned to the coach for lunch, and Chris looked after Gay with the same care and attention that a trained nurse bestows on a patient whose will she has reason to think has been made in her favour, and the girl enjoyed herself thoroughly.
Captain Conant was to ride in the first race, and her remarks on his ability as a jockey, and his probable fate, would have quite unnerved the gentleman in question could he have heard them.
"There he goes!" she exclaimed as a man cantered past, "what a seat! Did you ever see anything like it?"
Chris smiled.
"It is ugly, isn't it?" he agreed, "but men ride in all shapes, you know, and it isn't always the best-looking in the saddle that is the strongest."
"I know that, thank you," Gay replied saucily, "but George Conant can't ride for nuts, and never will. I wonder he hasn't broken his neck long ago. Of course, he only rides the safest of jumpers, and even so, it's no odds on his not jumping first. You yourself told me, Chris," she added reproachfully, "that he often throws down his reins at the fences, and catches hold fore and aft, shrieking loudly if anything ranges alongside!"
Chris exploded.
"Well, yes," he said, "he's certainly not what one would call a bold horseman. He likes to have most of the course to himself, and regards it as a liberty if anyone approaches within two lengths of him. He once reported a jockey who had the temerity to shout 'Yah!' while they were both in the air over a fence, and in consequence of which remark he lost his balance—he has no grip, you know—and fell off."
"Frightened Isaac!" cried Gay indignantly.