The fair Christabel was by no means deficient in courage, but to-day Red King had been too much for her. He had fretted himself into foam, and her pretty hands were sore with holding the ‘reefing’ horse, whose mouth became more and more callous.
‘Don’t you ride him at that fence, Miss Christabel,’ said Bob, in a tone of entreaty. ‘He’ll go through it as sure as you’re alive. I know him.’
The girl’s face grew a shade paler, but she set her teeth, and, pointing with her whip to Miss Fane, who was sailing away in ease and luxury on the farther side, said, ‘I must; they’re all going at it.’
‘Very well,’ said he—mentally reprobating Red King’s mouth and temper, and it may be the obstinacy of young women—‘keep behind me, and we’ll be next.’
Upon this the wily Bob shot out from the leading ranks, closely followed by the wilful Christabel, whose horse, indeed, left her no option. Sending Desborough at a hog-backed rail at the rate of forty miles an hour, with a reprehensibly loose rein, that indignant animal declined to rise, and, chesting the rail, snapped it like a reed. As Master Bob lay back in the saddle with his head nearly on his horse’s tail, he had the pleasure of seeing Christabel pop pleasantly over the second rail, followed by the other ladies, excepting Mrs. Snowden, who faced the unbroken fence with considerable resolution. As for the attendant cavaliers, they negotiated it pleasantly enough, with the exception of a baulk or two and one fall. Indeed, another rail gave way soon after, making a gap through which the rear-guard, variously mounted and attired, streamed gallantly.
As for Bob Clarke, Red King had managed to run up to Desborough—(great turn of speed that old King)—and he fancied he saw in the marvellous eyes a recognition of his unusual mode of easing a stiff leap.
The next happened to be one rare in Australia, having its origin in Mr. Effingham’s British reminiscences. A fence was needed in the track of a marshy inlet from the lake. A ditch with a sod wall thrown up on the farther side made a boundary sufficing for all the needs of an enclosure, yet requiring no carriage of material.
‘We need not make it quite so broad or deep,’ he said, ‘as the ox fences in Westmeath; but if I can get a couple of hedgers and ditchers, I shall leave my memorial here, to outlast Dick’s timber skeletons.’
Two wandering navvies, on the look-out for dam-making, were fortunately discovered. The result of their labours was ‘The Squire’s Ditch,’ as the unusual substitute was henceforth named. It certainly was a relief after the austerity of posts and rails proper. In a few places the ditch had been filled in and a partial gap made in the sod wall. At any rate horse and rider would all go at it with light hearts. So, with the exception of Wilfred and Miss Fane—the latter having picked out the worst place she could see—everybody treated themselves indulgently; hit the wall, or scrambled over the ditch, just as their horses chose to comport themselves, and rode forward rejoicing.
The hounds have now lengthened out, while their leaders are racing, with lowered sterns, at a pace that leaves the heavy brigade an increasing distance behind. The flat is broken only by an occasional sedgy interval where the fall to the lake has not been sufficient. For the same reason the creek, or natural outlet of the watershed, is, though not very wide, less unequal as to depth than are most Australian watercourses, while the perpendicular banks show how the winter rains of ages have channelled the rich black soil.