Lawristone Clump is now close at hand, enlivened with the gay parasols and colours of the ladies.
There are but three more fences between the competitors and it, and seeing what he thinks a weak place in the next, Mr. Flintoff races for it over the sound furrows of the deeply-drained pasture. As he gets near it begins to look larger, and Cuddy’s irresolute handling makes the horse swerve.
“Now, then, old stoopid!” cries Jack, in a good London cabman’s accent; “Now, then, old stoopid! vot are ye stargazing that way for? Vy don’t ye go over or get out o’ de vay?”
“Go yourself,’” growled Cuddy, pulling his horse round.
“Go myself!” repeated Jack; “‘ow the doose can I go vid your great carcase stuck i’ the vay!”
“My great carcase stuck i’ the way!” retorted Cuddy, spurring and hauling at his horse. “My great carcase stuck in the way! Look at your own, and be hanged to ye!”
“Vell, look at it!” replied Jack, backing his horse for a run, and measuring his distance, he clapped spurs freely in his sides, and going at it full tilt, flew over the fence, exclaiming as he lit, “Dere, it is for you to ’zamine.”
“That feller can ride a deuced deal better than he pretends,” muttered Cuddy, wishing his tailorism mightn’t be all a trick; saying which he followed Jack’s example, and taking a run he presently landed in the next field, amidst the cheers of the roadsters. This was a fallow, deep, wet, and undrained, and his well ribbed-up horse was more than a match for Jack’s across it. Feeling he could go, Cuddy set himself home in his saddle, and flourishing his whip, cantered past, exclaiming, “Come along old stick in the mud!”
“I’ll stick i’ the mod ye!” replied Jack, hugging and holding his sobbing horse. “I’ll stick i’ the mod ye! Stop till I gets off dis birdliming field, and I’ll give you de go-bye, Cuddy, old cock.”
Jack was as good as his word, for the ground getting sounder on the slope, he spurted up a wet furrow, racing with Cuddy for the now obvious gap, that afforded some wretched half-starved calves a choice between the rushes of one field and the whicken grass of the other. Pop, Jack went over it, looking back and exclaiming to Cuddy, “Bon jour! top of de mornin’ to you, sare!” as he hugged his horse and scuttled up a high-backed ridge of the sour blue and yellow-looking pasture.