The pasture was sound, and they sped up it best pace, Mr. Flintoff well in advance.
The fence out was nothing either—a young quick fence set on the ground, which Cuddy flew in Leicestershire style, throwing up his right arm as he went. Monsieur was soon after him with a high bucking jump.
They were now upon plough,—undrained plough, too, which the recent rains bad rendered sticky and holding. General Havelock could have crossed it at score, but the ragged boundary fence of Thrivewell farm now appearing in view, Mr. Flintoff held him well together, while he scanned its rugged irregularities for a place.
“These are the nastiest fences in the world,” muttered Cuddy to himself, “and I’ll be bound to say there’s a great yawning ditch either on this side or that. Dash it! I wish I was over,” continued he, looking up and down for an exit. There was very little choice. Where there weren’t great mountain ash or alder growers laid into the fence, there were bristling hazel uprights, which presented little more attraction. Altogether it was not a desirable obstacle. Even from the road it looked like something. “Go it, Cuddy! Go it!” cried Sir Moses, now again in his dogcart, from the midst of the crowd, adding, “It’s nothing of a place!”
“Isn’t it,” muttered Cuddy, still looking up and down, adding, “I wish you had it instead of me.”
“Ord dom it, go at it like a man!” now roared the Baronet, fearing for his investments. “Go at it for the honour of the hunt! for the honour of Hit-im and Hold-im shire!” continued he, nearly stamping the bottom of his dog-cart out. The mare started forward at the sound, and catching Tippy Tom with the shafts in the side, nearly upset Geordey Gallon, who, like Sir Moses, was holloaing on the Frenchman. There was then a mutual interchange of compliments. Meanwhile Cuddy, having espied a weak bush-stopped gap in a bend of the hedge, now walks his horse quietly up to it, who takes it in a matter-of-course sort of way that as good as says, “What have you been making such a bother about.” He then gathers himself together, and shoots easily over the wide ditch on the far side, Cuddy hugging himself at its depth as he lands. Monsieur then exclaiming, “Dem it, I vill not make two bites of von cherry,” goes at the same place at the rate of twenty miles an hour, and beat beside Cuddy ere the latter had well recovered from his surprise at the feat. “Ord rot it!” exclaimed he, starting round, “what d’ye mean by following a man that way? If I’d fallen, you’d ha’ been a-top of me to a certainty.”
“Oh, never fear,” replied Monsieur, grinning and flourishing his whip. “Oh, never fear, I vod have ‘elped you to pick up de pieces.”
“Pick up the pieces, sir!” retorted Cuddy angrily. “I don’t want to pick up the pieces. I want to ride the race as it should be.”
“Come then, old cock,” cried Monsieur, spurring past, “you shall jomp ‘pon me if you can.” So saying, Jack hustled away over a somewhat swampy enclosure, and popping through an open bridle-gate, led the way into a large rich alluvial pasture beyond.
Jack’s feat at the boundary fence, coupled with the manner in which he now sat and handled his horse, caused a revulsion of feeling on the road, and Gallon’s stentorian roar of “The Frenchman! the Frenchman!” now drowned the vociferations on behalf of Mr. Flintoff and the “yaller.” Sir Moses bit his lips and ground his teeth with undisguised dismay. If Flintoff let the beggar beat him, he—-he didn’t know what he would do. “Flintoff! Flintoff!” shrieked he as Cuddy again took the lead.