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Then a mutual roar arose, as either party saw its champion in distress.
“Stick to him, Cuddy! stick to him!” roars Sir Moses.
“Stick to him, Mouncheer! stick to him!” vociferates Mr. Gallon on the other side.
They do as they are bid; Mr. Flintoff remounting just as Monsieur scrambles out of the brook, aud Cuddy’s blood now being roused, he runs the General gallantly at it, and lands, hind legs and all, on the opposite bank. Loud cheers followed the feat.
It is now anybody’s race, and the vehemence of speculation is intense.
“The red!”—“The yaller! the yaller!”—“The red!” Mr. Gallon is frantic, and Tippy Tom leads the way along the turnpike as if he, too, was in the race. Sir Moses’s mare breaks into a canter, and makes the action of the gig resemble that of a boat going to sea. The crowd rush pell-mell without looking where they are going; it is a wonder that nobody is killed.