Far in advance races Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman in
sandy whiskers, hotly pressed by the Marquis, and with eight or nine
others hard in their rear; behind these again, rides the Viscount,
while to the right of Barnabas races Slingsby on his long-legged
sorrel, with the rest thundering on behind. And now before them is
the first jump--a hedge with the gleam of water beyond; and the
hedge is high, and the water broad. Nearer it looms, and
nearer--half a mile away! a quarter! less! Tressider's horse rises
to it, and is well over, with the Marquis hard on his heels. But now
shouts are heard, and vicious cries, as several horses, refusing,
swerve violently; there is a crash! a muffled cry--some one is down.
Then, as Barnabas watches, anxious-eyed, mindful of the Viscount's
injured arm--"Moonraker" shoots forward and has cleared it gallantly.
And now it is that "The Terror" feels the restraining bit relax and
thereupon, with his fierce eyes ever upon the gray flanks of his
chosen foe, he tosses his great head, lengthens his stride, and with
a snort of defiance sweeps past Carnaby's gray, on and on, with
thundering hoofs and ears laid back, while Barnabas, eyeing the
hedge with frowning brows, gauges his distance,--a hundred yards!
fifty! twenty-five! steadies "The Terror" in his stride and sends
him at it--feels the spring and sway of the powerful loins,--a rush
of wind, and is over and away, with a foot to spare.
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