Fortunately for the ladies and a large proportion of the sterner sex, who would have to ‘jump or go home,’ Wilfred knew of ‘slip-rails’ a little more than a hundred yards from where the quick eyes of old Tom had marked the dingo steal through.
‘I have no doubt you would try it, Miss Fane,’ said Wilfred, who marked with admiration the game sparkle in his companion’s eye, as her gaze ranged calmly over the barrier; ‘but it is a high, stiff fence, and dangerous for a lady. At any rate, as your temporary guardian, I must forbid your taking it, if you would defer to my control.’
‘Certainly, oh, certainly, and many thanks,’ said the girl, blushing slightly; ‘it is very good of you to take care of me. But what are we to do? We can’t miss the finish after this delightful run.’
‘Certainly not. Do you see the road to the right of us? There is a slip-rail on the track, which I fancy will be patronised. Follow me.’
Slip-rails are contemned by advanced pastoralists, but they stood the Lake William Hunt in good stead on this occasion. As they rode to the opening, Miss Fane said:
‘Pray leave the middle rail up. It will be the last jump, and I daresay the other ladies will agree with me.’
‘Very well,’ said Wilfred. ‘I need not get off.’
Riding up to the fence, he lifted out the shifting end of the stout round rail, and, allowing it to fall to the ground, cantered back to his fair companion.
‘Now then,’ she said, ‘see how prettily you will take this, Master Emigrant! It is quite stiff, though not very high.’
In truth the rail, as high as a sheep-hurdle, was slightly hog-backed, and strong enough to have capsized a buffalo.