"Well," continued Chris, "he described the ejaculation as an intimidating one, and was surprised that the Stewards did not immediately suspend the perpetrator from riding again. The next time the two met in a race, the professional did not confine his ejaculation to the fences, but kept up a running commentary upon poor George, while his remarks were rather more pungent than on the previous occasion. I have before now helped George back into the saddle over the 'drop' fences—chiefly by the slack of his breeches, you know—and he seemed surprised, not to say grateful, that I had not given him the gentle push that would have dissolved the precarious partnership between himself and his horse."
"Has he ever won anything?" Gay asked, laughing.
"Oh, yes. This year he has won two races, one a walk-over for a National Hunt flat race, and the other when there were three runners. One was not trying, and ran out after going half-way, while the jockey of the other was so beat two fences from home, that he lost his senses, and fell off on the flat. George did not notice this, and for the last quarter of a mile rode a desperate finish, mistaking the jeers of the crowd for appreciation."
"Bet you a pair of gloves he comes undone this time, falls barred," Gay said, and Chris closed, knowing it was a bad bet for him, but welcoming the prospect of buying gloves for Gay, and perhaps being permitted to button them up. What felicity!
Gay's glasses were turned to the starting-post.
"He can't get his horse to join the others," she announced. "He's speaking to the starter—who looks annoyed, from his attitude. I do believe there are tears in his eyes."
"Strong glasses yours, Gay, aren't they?" inquired Mrs. Bulteel mischievously, but Gay was too busy to heed her.
"They're running," she said the next moment. "George has got away all right, and the pace is good. Something in green—what is it, Chris?—is alongside him; oh-h!—that was a near thing. He all but came unglued, as you call it, at that first fence. He's got back again now, and is picking up his reins. Does he always drop them when 'in the air'? Now they're coming to the ditch, and, by the way he's riding, I think I win my bet here. Sit back, sit back, man!" she muttered, as George rose to the fence, and on landing was shot far up his horse's neck, whence he gradually pushed himself back into the saddle.
Mrs. Bulteel laughed right out; it was more interesting to watch Gay than the race.
"Hullo! one's down—blue and white chevrons!" Gay glanced at her card to see its name. "It's 'Topaz.' The jock's up all right, but Topaz is where he fell—winded, I expect. Where are the others?" sweeping the field with her glasses. "Oh, there they are, and Captain Conant's still on top."