Again the hurricane of cheers broke out. "Don't he fly 'em," said one man, waving his hat. At the last fence he made his spring yards too soon; his forelegs got over all right, but his hind legs dropped on the rail with a sounding rap, and he left a little tuft of hair sticking on it.
"I like to see 'em feel their fences," said the fat man.
"I had a bay 'orse once, and he felt every fence he ever jumped; shows their confidence."
"I think he'll feel that last one for a while," said the little dark man.
"What's this now?"
"Number Two, Homeward Bound!" An old, solid chestnut horse came out and cantered up to each jump, clearing them coolly and methodically.
The crowd was not struck by the performance, and the fat man said:
"No pace!" but surreptitiously made two strokes (to indicate Number Two) on the cuff of his shirt.
"Number Eleven, Spite!" This was a leggy, weedy chestnut, half-racehorse, half-nondescript, ridden by a terrified amateur, who went at the fence with a white, set face. The horse raced up to the fence, and stopped dead, amid the jeers of the crowd. The rider let daylight into him with his spurs, and rushed him at it again. This time he got over.
Round he went, clouting some fences with his front legs, others with his hind legs. The crowd jeered, but the fat man, from a sheer spirit of opposition, said: "That would be a good horse if he was rode better." And the squatter remarked: "Yes, he belongs to a young feller just near me. I've seen him jump splendidly out in the bush, over brush fences."
The little dark man said nothing, but made a note in his book.
"Number Twelve, Gaslight!" "Now, you'll see a horse," said the fat man.
"I've judged this 'orse in twenty different shows, and gave him first prize every time!"
Gaslight turned out to be a fiddle-headed, heavy-shouldered brute, whose long experience of jumping in shows where they give points for pace -- as if the affair was a steeplechase -- had taught him to get the business over as quickly as he could. He went thundering round the ring, pulling double, and standing off his fences in a style that would infallibly bring him to grief if following hounds across roads or through broken timber.
"Now," said the fat man, "that's a 'unter, that is. What I say is, when you come to judge at a show, pick out the 'orse you'd soonest be on if Ned Kelly was after you, and there you have the best 'unter."
The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book, while the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. "I like to see a bit of pace myself," he ventured.
The fat man sat on him heavily. "You don't call that pace, do you?" he said. "He was going dead slow."
Various other competitors did their turn round the ring, some propping and bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing at their fences; not one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves into difficulties by changing feet or misjudging the distance, and were loudly applauded by the crowd for "cleverness" in getting themselves out of the difficulties they had themselves created.
A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few, and the task of deciding was entered on.
"I have kept a record," said the little man, "of how they jumped each fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make and shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that Homeward Bound is the best, with Gaslight second."
"Homeward Bound!" said the fat man. "Why, the pace he went wouldn't head a duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets of stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at 'em."
Here he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note "No. II.", mistook it for "Number Eleven", and said: "I want Number Eleven to go another round."
The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling and snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn.
"What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?" he said.
"Why," said the ring steward, "you said you wanted him."
"Well," said the fat man, "if I said I wanted him I do want him.
Let him go the round."
The terrified amateur went at his fences with the rashness of despair, and narrowly escaped being clouted off on two occasions.
This put the fat man in a quandary. He had kept no record, and all the horses were jumbled up in his head; but he had one fixed idea, to give the first prize to Gaslight; as to the second he was open to argument. From sheer contrariness he said that Number Eleven would be "all right if he were rode better," and the squatter agreed.
The little man was overruled, and the prizes went -- Gaslight, first;
Spite, second; Homeward Bound, third.
The crowd hooted loudly as Spite's rider came round with the second ribbon, and small boys suggested to the fat judge in shrill tones that he ought to boil his head. The fat man stalked majestically into the stewards' stand, and on being asked how he came to give Spite the second prize, remarked oracularly: "I judge the 'orse, I don't judge the rider."
This silenced criticism, and everyone adjourned to have a drink.
Over the flowing bowl the fat man said: "You see, I don't believe in this nonsense about points. I can judge 'em without that."
Twenty dissatisfied competitors vowed they would never bring another horse there in their lives. Gaslight's owner said: "Blimey, I knew it would be all right with old Billy judging. 'E knows this 'orse."
