VI + 

The Colonel’s Cup + 

I + 

By the end of February I had made further progress in what I believed to be an important phase of my terrestrial experience. In other words (and aided by an exceptionally mild winter) I had averaged five days a fortnight with the hounds. I had, of course, confided in Dixon my intention of entering Cockbird for the Ringwell Heavyweight Race. My main object now seemed to be to jump as many fences as possible before that eventful day arrived. Meets of the Dumborough had been disregarded, and a series of short visits to the Rectory had continued the “qualifying” of Cockbird. (“Qualifying” consisted in drawing the Master’s attention to the horse during each day’s hunting; and I did this more than conscientiously, since Stephen and I were frequently shouted at by him for “larking” over fences when the hounds weren’t running.) + 

The problem of Harkaway’s lack of stamina had been solved by Dixon when he suggested that I should box him to the Staghound meets. He told me that they generally had the best of their fun in the first hour, so I could have a good gallop and bring the old horse home early. This took me (by a very early train from Baldock Wood) to a new and remote part of the county, and some of the fun I enjoyed there is worth a few pages of description. + 

The Coshford Vale Stag Hunt, which had been in existence as a subscription pack for about half a century, had been kept on its legs by the devoted efforts of a group of prosperous hop-farmers and a family of brewers whose name was a household word in the district. Gimling’s Fine Ales were a passport to popularity, and the genial activities of Mr. “Gus” Gimling, who had been Master for more years than he cared to count, had kept the Hunt flourishing and assured it of a friendly reception almost everywhere in the country over which it hunted (described in the scarlet-covered Hunting Directory as “principally pasture with very little plough”). This description encouraged me to visualize an Elysium of green fields and jumpable hedges; but the country, although it failed to come up to my preconceived idea of its charms, included a nice bit of vale; and in those days there was very little wire in the fences. + 

I need hardly say that, since stags were no longer indigenous to that part of England, the Coshford stag-hunters kept theirs at home (in a deer paddock a few miles from the kennels). The animal which had been selected to provide the day’s sport was carried to the meet in a mysterious-looking van, driven by the deerkeeper, a ruddy faced Irishman in a brown velveteen jacket who had earned a reputation for humorous repartee, owing to the numerous inquiries of inquisitive persons on the roads who asked him what he’d got in that old hearse of his. + 

Provincial stag-hunts are commonly reputed to be comic and convivial gatherings which begin with an uproarious hunt-breakfast for the local farmers. Purple-faced and bold with cherry brandy, they heave themselves on to their horses and set off across the country, frequently falling off in a ludicrous manner. But the Coshford sportsmen, as I knew them, were businesslike and well-behaved; they were out for a good old-fashioned gallop. In fact, I think of them as a somewhat serious body of men. And since the field was mainly composed of farmers, there was nothing smart or snobbish about the proceedings. + 

I need hardly say that there was no levity in my own attitude of mind when I set out for my first sample of this new experiment in sportsmanship. In spite of talking big to Dixon the night before, I felt more frightened than lighthearted. For I went alone and knew no one when I got there. Dixon had talked to me about Harry Buckman, who acted as amateur huntsman and was well known as a rider at hunt races all over the county. That was about all I’d got to go on, and I gazed at Buckman with interest and admiration when he tit-tupped stylishly past me at the meet with his velvet cap cocked slightly over one ear. Buckman was a mixture of horse-dealer and yeoman farmer. In the summer he rode jumpers in the show ring. His father had hunted a pack of harriers, and it was said that when times were bad he would go without his dinner himself rather than stint his hounds of their oatmeal. + 

Roughly speaking, young Buckman’s task as huntsman was twofold. Firstly, he was there to encourage and assist the hounds (a scratch pack⁠—mostly dog-hounds drafted from foxhound kennels because they were oversized) in following the trail of their unnaturally contrived quarry; secondly, he had to do everything he could to prevent his hounds from “pulling down” the deer. With this paradoxical but humane object in view he had once jumped a railway gate; by this feat of horsemanship he arrived in the nick of time and saved the deer’s life. Fast hunts were fairly frequent, but there were slow hunting days when scent was bad and the Coshford subscribers were able to canter along at their ease enjoying a pretty bit of hound-work. Sometimes the uncarted animal got clean away from them, and there was a special interest attached to a meet when they drew for an outlying deer. + 

My first day with the Staghounds was on Christmas Eve and I find the following entry in my diary: “Coshford; Packman’s Green. Perfect hunting day; came on wet about 2:30. Turned out at Hazelpits Farm and ran well to Wissenden, then on by Chartley Church and Henhurst down the hill and on towards Applestead. Took deer (‘Miss Masterful’) about 2. Nine-mile point. Harkaway in good form. Took a toss over a stile toward the end. Very nice country, especially the first bit.” From this concise account it may seem as if I had already mastered the Coshford topography, but I suspect that my source of information was a paragraph in a local paper. + 

I cannot remember how I made myself acquainted with the name of the deer which provided the nine-mile point. But in any case, how much is taken for granted and left unrecorded in that shorthand description? And how helpful it would have been now if I had written an accurately observed and detailed narrative of the day. But since the object of these pages is to supply that deficiency I must make my reminiscent deductions as best I can. And those words from my diary do seem worth commenting on⁠—symbolic as they are of the equestrian equilibrium on which my unseasoned character was trying to pattern itself. I wrote myself down that evening as I wanted myself to be⁠—a hard-bitten hunting man, self-possessed in his localized knowingness and stag-hunting jargon. The words might well have been penned by a middle-aged sheep-farmer, or even by Mr. “Gus” Gimling himself. “Took a toss over a stile” is the only human touch. But taking tosses was incidental to the glory of being a hard rider. What I ought to have written was⁠—that I couldn’t make up my mind whether to go at it or not, and the man behind me shouted “go on if you’re going,” so I felt flustered and let Harkaway rush at it anyhow and then jerked his mouth just as he was taking off, and he didn’t really fall, but only pecked badly and chucked me over his head and then stood quite still waiting for me to scramble up again, and altogether it was rather an inglorious exhibition, and thank goodness Stephen wasn’t there to see it. For though Stephen and I always made a joke out of every toss we took, it wouldn’t have suited my dignity if he’d told me in cold blood that I was still a jolly rotten rider⁠—the tacit assumption being that my falls were entirely due to my thrusting intrepidity. + 

It will be noticed that no mention is made of the method by which “Miss Masterful” was “taken,” although I had witnessed that performance for the first time in my life. As far as I can recollect, Miss M. having decided that the show had lasted long enough, plunged into a small pond and stood there with only her small head appearing above the muddy water. Raucous ratings and loud whip-crackings restrained the baying hounds from splashing in after her, and then genial Mr. Gimling, assisted by one of the whiskered wiseacres of the hunt (in a weather-stained black coat which came nearly down to his knees, white cord breeches, black butcher-boots, and very long spurs), began to get busy with a long rope. After Miss M. had eluded their attempts several times they succeeded in lassooing her head and she was persuaded to emerge from the pond. She was then frogmarched away to a farm building, where she awaited the arrival of her conveyance, which was cruising about the country and usually put in an appearance much earlier than might have been expected. + 

It can also be inferred from my diary that the weather “came on wet” as soon as I’d started my ten-mile ride back to the railway-station and Harkaway’s horsebox, and that the supporters of the Coshford Hunt departed in different directions wishing one another a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. It may also be inferred that poor Miss Masterful sweated and shivered in the barn with heaving sides and frightened eyes. It did not occur to me to sympathize with her as I stood at the entrance to watch them tie her up. I only wondered how far I was from the station and my poached eggs for tea. Any sympathy I had was reserved for Harkaway, who looked as if he’d had more galloping than was good for him. But when I was jogging back by Chartley Church, with my coat collar turned up and the rain soaking my knees, I chuckled to myself as I thought of an amusing incident which had happened earlier in the day. + 

We were galloping full-tilt along a road just outside a cosy village. An angry-faced old parson was leaning over his garden gate, and as we clattered past he shook his fist at us and shouted “Brutes! brutes!” in a loud unclerical voice. Excited and elated as I was, I turned in the saddle and waved my whip derisively at him. Silly old buffer! And what a contrast to that jolly sporting parson in a low-crowned top-hat who went so well and came up and talked to me so nicely while Miss Masterful was being hauled out of the pond! + 

I have analysed the orthodox entry in my diary more fully than I had intended. But how lifelessly I recover the breathing reality of which those words are the only relics. The night before hunting: the anxious wonderings about the weather; lying awake for a while with busy thoughts about tomorrow that grow blurred with the beginning of an untroubled sleep. And then Miriam battering on the door with “it’s twenty to seven, sir,” and the first look at the quiet morning greyness, and the undefinable feeling produced by the yellow candlelight and the wintry smelling air from the misty garden. Such was the impermanent fabric as it unfolded: memory enchants even the dilatory little train journey which carried my expectant simplicity into the freshness of a country seen for the first time. All the sanguine guesswork of youth is there, and the silliness; all the novelty of being alive and impressed by the urgency of tremendous trivialities. + 

II + 

The end of February became the beginning of March, and this unavoidable progression intensified my anticipations of the date in April which meant so much to me. Cockbird had done his eight qualifying days without the slightest mishap or the least sign of unsoundness. He was so delightfully easy to handle that my assurance as a rider had increased rapidly. But in the period of preparation Dixon and I, between us, carried a large invisible load of solicitude and suspense. Our conversational demeanour was jauntily portentous. But when I was alone with myself and indoors, I often felt so nervous that the monthlong remoteness of the point-to-points became almost unbearable. My confidence in Cockbird’s ability to carry off the Colonel’s Cup served only to magnify my imaginations of what might go wrong in the race through my own lack of experience. + 

I consoled myself with daydreams in which I won in every way that my limited racing repertory could contrive. There was cantering home an easy winner; and there was winning cleverly by half a length; and there was coming up with a rush to score sensationally in the last stride. Easy winner lacked intensity; I would have preferred something more spectacular and heroic. But this was difficult to manage; I couldn’t win with my arm in a sling unless I started in that condition, which would be an anticlimax. On the whole I was in favour of a fine finish with Stephen, although even this seemed inappropriate because Jerry was believed to be much slower than Cockbird, and could only hope to win if I fell⁠—a thought which reduced my suppositions to reality. + 

Meanwhile Cockbird existed unperturbed, munching large feeds of crushed oats (with which Dixon mixed some water, for he had an idea that this was good for his wind) and doing three hours’ steady work on the road every day. Once a week we took him to a ten-acre field on a hillside, which a well-disposed farmer allowed us to use for gallops. Round and round we went with set and serious faces (Dixon riding Harkaway), until we had done three presumptive miles up and down hill. When we pulled up Dixon would jump off, and I would jump off to stand meekly by the horse’s snorting heads while he fussed around Cockbird with as much solemnity and solicitude as if he were a Grand National favourite. And, so far as we were concerned, “the National” (which was to be run ten days before the Ringwell Heavyweight Race) was quite a secondary affair, though we sometimes talked about it in an offhand way which might have led a stranger to suppose that either of us might slip up to Liverpool to see it, provided that we could spare the time. Neither of us doubted that Cockbird himself could “get round Aintree” if asked to do so. He was, we agreed, a regular National stamp of horse, and though I had never seen an Aintree fence, I was quite sure that no fence was too big for him. + 

On some such afternoon (for we always went out in the afternoon, though before breakfast would have been more correct, but it would have made the day so long and empty), on some such afternoon, when Cockbird had done his gallop to our mutual satisfaction and we were jogging quietly home, with the sun making haloes on the fleeces of the sheep who watched us pass⁠—on some such afternoon, I repeat, I was reminded of the old days when I was learning to ride the cob Sheila, and of how I used to ask Dixon to pretend to be Mr. MacDoggart winning the Hunt Cup. Such a suggestion now would have struck both of us as unseemly; this was no time for such childish nonsense as that (though, when one came to think of it, twelve years ago wasn’t such a very long time and “the twenty hop-kilns” were still down there in the valley to remind me of my childish excitement about them). But the thought passed through my mind, and at the same moment the warning whistle of a train going along the Weald would remind me of that interrogative railway journey which the three of us would be making in not much more than two weeks’ time⁠—was it really as near as that now? + 

The thought of Mr. MacDoggart’s remote victories at Dumborough Races made me wish that I could ask Dixon for some firsthand information about race-riding. But although he had once worked in a racing-stable, he’d never had an opportunity of riding in a race. And I was shy of asking him questions which would expose my ignorance of things which, for some reason, I supposed that I ought to have known; so I had to make the best of such hints as he dropped me. + 

And then there was the difficulty of dress, a subject on which he never offered advice. Desperately in need of information, I asked myself what I was to wear on my head. Stephen had worn some sort of cap last year, but the idea of buying a jockey-cap seemed somehow ludicrous. (I remembered the old brown corduroy one I wore on my first day with the Dumborough.) + 

On this particular afternoon I had shortened my stirrups by several holes. I had observed, in some steeplechasing photographs in an illustrated paper, that the jockeys rode with their knees ever so much higher than mine. This experiment caused me to feel important and professional but less secure in the saddle. And when Cockbird made a sudden swerve (quite needlessly alarmed by a blackbird that flew out of the hedge which we hugged so as to make the field as large as possible) I almost lost my balance; in fact I nearly fell off. Dixon said nothing until we were on our way home, and then he merely remarked that he’d never believed in riding very short. “They always say that for a point-to-point there’s nothing like sticking to the old-fashioned hunting seat.” I took the hint, which was a wise one. + 

Much depended on Cockbird; but much more depended on me. There were moments when I felt acutely conscious of the absolute nullity of my past as a race-rider. It wasn’t easy to discuss the event when one was limited by a tacit avowal that one had no idea what it would feel like. The void in my experience caused circumlocutions. My only authority was Stephen, whose well-known narrative of last year’s race I was continually paraphrasing. The fact that the Ringwell country was so far away from our own familiar hunts added to the anxious significance of my attempt. How could we⁠—humble denizens of an inglorious unlimited region⁠—hope to invade successfully the four-day-a-week immensity which contained the Colonel and his coveted Cup? + 

Such was the burden of my meditations while I lugged the garden roller up and down the tennis lawn after tea, while the birds warbled and scolded among the laurels and arbutuses in the latening March twilight and Aunt Evelyn tinkled Handel’s “Harmonious Blacksmith” on the piano in the drawing-room. + 

III + 

It will have been observed that, in the course of my career as a sportsman, I was never able to believe that I could do a thing until I had done it. Whatever quality it was which caused this tentative progress toward proficiency, it gave intensity to everything that I did. I do not claim that it was unusual⁠—this nervousness of mine about my first point-to-point race. On the contrary, I am sure that it was a normal and exemplary state of mind. Anyone who cares to do so is at liberty to make fun of the trepidations which a young man carries about with him and conceals. But there is a risk in such ridicule. As I remember and write, I grin, but not unkindly, at my distant and callow self and the absurdities which constitute his chronicle. To my mind the only thing that matters is the resolve to do something. Middle-aged retrospection may decide that it wasn’t worth doing; but the perceptions of maturity are often sapless and restrictive; and “the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,” even though they are only about buying a racing-cap. + 

A week before the Races I went to London and bought a cap with a jutting peak; it was made of black silk, with strings that hung down on each side until they had been tied in front. I had remarked, quite casually, to Stephen, that I supposed a top-hat was rather uncomfortable for racing, and he had advised me about the cap, telling me to be sure to get one which came well down over my ears, “for there’s nothing that looks so unworkmanlike as to have a pair of red ears sticking out under your cap.” Whereupon he pulled one of mine, which, as he said, were big enough to catch any wind there was. + 

I also bought a weight-cloth. The Heavyweight Racers had to carry fourteen stone, and after Dixon had weighed me and my hunting saddle on the old weighing machine in the harness-room, we came to the conclusion that, assuming our antiquated machine to be accurate, I should be required to carry twelve pounds of lead. + 

“Thank heaven it wasn’t thirteen,” I thought, as I went into the stable to give Cockbird a few well-washed carrots. + 

He certainly was looking an absolute picture, though Dixon said he’d like to get a shade more of the meat off him. As he nipped playfully at my sleeve I marvelled at my good fortune in being the possessor of such unparalleled perfection. + 

With an access of elation, I ran back to the house in a hailstorm. The sun was out again by the time I was upstairs brushing my hair for luncheon. I got out my new cap and tried it on before the glass. Then Miriam bumped into the room with a can of hot water, and as I hadn’t time to snatch it off I stood there with the strings hanging down, looking, no doubt, a bit of a fool. + 

“Oh, sir, you did give me a turn!” she ejaculated, “I’d hardly have known you in that there jockey-cap!” She added that I’d be the death of them all before I’d done. + 

During luncheon Aunt Evelyn remarked that she did so hope it wouldn’t be wet for the point-to-points. She had never seen one in her life, but she had once been to Dumborough Races, which she considered dangerous. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she still visualized a point-to-point as a sort of paper-chase, and I had said nothing to counteract this notion, although I did not want to minimize the grandeur of next week’s events. Aunt Evelyn’s intense love of horses made Cockbird the object of an admiration which almost equalled my own. This, combined with her unshakeable faith in Dixon, gave her a comfortable feeling that I was quite safe on Cockbird. But when Miriam, rather tactlessly, blurted out, “Mr. George hasn’t half got a lovely jockey-cap!” she showed symptoms of alarm. + 

“Oh, I do hope the jumps won’t be very big!” she exclaimed. To which I replied, somewhat boastfully, that I meant to get over them whatever they might be like. + 

“I’m going over to walk round the course with Stephen on Sunday. He says it’s a course that wants knowing,” I said, helping myself to some more tapioca pudding. + 

Stephen had warned me that I shouldn’t be able to stay at the Rectory for the Races, because his mother was already “in such a muck-sweat about it” that the topic was never touched on in her presence. So I bicycled to Dumbridge, took the slow train which explored Sussex on Sunday mornings, got out at a wayside station, and then bicycled another seven miles to the course. (The seven-mile ride saved me from going on to Downfield and changing on to the branch line which went to the station close by the course.) These exertions were no hardship at all on that dusty spring day; had it been necessary, I would gladly have bicycled all the whole thirty miles from Butley and back again. Nothing in my life had ever appeared more imperative than that I should walk round that “three and a half miles of fair hunting country” and memorize each obstacle in the sequence. I wanted to carry home in my cranium every inch of the land over which Cockbird would, I strenuously hoped, stride with his four legs. + 

In the meantime I had plenty to occupy my mind pleasantly as I pedalled seriously along the leafless lanes. I already knew that part of the Ringwell country moderately well; I could identify most of the coverts by their names, and I ruminated affectionately on the rainy February days when I had gone round and through them in a hot and flustered gallop with the mud from the man in front of me flying past my head. Eagerly I recognized the hedges and heave-gates which I had jumped, and the ruddy faces of the Ringwell sportsmen accompanied my meditations in amicable clusters. + 

Memories within memories; those red and black and brown coated riders return to me now without any beckoning, bringing along with them the wintry smelling freshness of the woods and fields. And how could I forget them, those evergreen country characters whom once I learnt to know by heart, and to whom I have long since waved my last farewell (as though at the end of a rattling good day). Sober-faced squires, with their civil greetings and knowing eyes for the run of a fox; the landscape belonged to them and they to the homely landscape. Weather-beaten farmers, for whom the activities of the Hunt were genial interludes in the stubborn succession of good or bad seasons out of which they made a living on their low-lying clay or windswept downland acres. These people were the pillars of the Hunt⁠—the landowners and the farmers. The remainder were merely subscribers; and a rich-flavoured collection of characters they were, although I only half-recognized them as such while I was with them. + 

There was loquacious old Mr. Dearborn; formerly a none too successful stockbroker, and now a gentleman of leisure, who enjoyed himself on a couple of spavined screws which (he continually asserted) were worth at least a couple of hundred apiece and as clever as cats, though he’d never given more than thirty pounds for a horse, and rarely went as high as that; both of them, as Stephen said, looked lonely without a gig behind them. Old Dearborn jabbered his way through the days, attaching himself to one group of riders after another until a fox was found; at the end of a good hunt he would always turn up again, puffing and blowing and purple in the face, but voluble with enthusiasm for the way his horse had got over “one of the ugliest places you ever saw in your life.” However tedious he may have been, the Ringwell field wouldn’t have been the same without him. + 

Many an exuberant voice and lively countenance I could revive from that vanished cavalcade. But I can’t help thinking that the best man of them all was “Gentleman George,” as we called him. George was a grey-haired groom; Mr. Clampton, his middle-aged master, was “something in the City”⁠—a natty untalkative little man, who came out in queerly cut clothes and a low-crowned hat. Mr. Clampton kept three stouthearted weight-carriers, but he seldom hunted more than one day a week. George put in as many days as possible; he called it “keeping the guv’nor’s ’osses well in work.” No day was too long and no fence too hairy for George and the guv’nor’s ’osses. At the most remote meets he would trot up⁠—his fine-featured open face subdued to the decorum of servitude and a jolly twinkle forever lurking in his keen eyes. (He was a man who could condense more meaning into a single wink than most political speakers can put into a peroration.) Always he had his free and easy hail for the hunt-servants (to whom he could generally give some useful information during the day); for the gentry he reserved a respectful rap of his hat-brim and a sonorous “Mornin’, sir.” However curt his utterances were, the tones of his voice seemed to imply the underlying richness and vigor of his vitality. He knew every inch of the country backwards, and the short-tailed grey who was his favorite had done fourteen seasons with those hounds since Mr. Clampton first bought him as a five-year-old from a farm in County Waterford. + 

The great joke about George was his method of acting as second horseman when his worthy master was out hunting. This, of course, should have meant that he kept as much as possible to the roads and handed the horse over to his employer as soon as the first horse had done as much galloping and jumping as was considered good for him. Not so George, who was seldom more than two fields away from hounds however hard they ran. Times without number I have seen him come crashing through some black-looking fence and then turn to shout back at the irresolute Mr. Clampton, “Shove ’im at it, sir; there’s a big old ditch on the landing-side!” And at the end of a gallop, when both horses were smoking hot, he would dismount with the utmost gravity and exchange horses with his master, who had even been known to go home first, leaving his privileged retainer to knock holes in the fences in a late afternoon hunt. + 

In him I seem to be remembering all that was warmhearted and exhilarating in my days with the Ringwell, for he showed a special interest in Stephen Colwood and myself, and was never so well-contented as when he was showing us the way over an awkward place or giving us the benefit of his ripe experience and intimate knowledge. There was something noble about him. And so (I choose to think) it was for “Gentleman George” that I kept the kindliest of my meditations as I was bicycling to the point-to-point course. + 

It was peaceful and pleasant to be squatting on a gate and opening the package of sandwiches that Miriam had made me. The gate opened on to a boggy lane which ran through Crutchett’s Wood⁠—a well-known covert. But Crutchett’s Wood was beginning to look more idyllic than sporting now; it was dotted with primrose bunches, and the wild anemones were numerous. Although I saw them with placid appreciation my uppermost thought was that the country was drying up nicely; deep going was believed to be a disadvantage to Cockbird, who was supposed to possess a turn of speed which he would have more chance of showing if the ground were dry. + 

The early afternoon was quiet and Sunday-like as I sat with half a ham-sandwich in my hand; a saffron butterfly fluttered aimlessly along the hedge; miles away the grey-green barrier of the downs overlooked the inactive Weald, and I thought I’d rather like to be up there, by the old windmill on Ditchbury Beacon. + 

Discarding this unsportsmanlike notion I went on my way; half an hour later my uncompanioned identity had been merged in my meeting with Stephen and we were very deliberately inspecting the first few fences. There was a stake-and-bound hedge on a bank which we didn’t much like the look of. While we were still planted in front of it the cheery voice of Arthur Brandwick hailed us with “That’s a place where you’ll have to take a pull at your old horse, Steve.” With him was Nigel Croplady, wearing white gaiters and puffing a cigar; his somewhat supercilious recognition of my existence made me feel that I had no business to be there at all. Croplady was on the Point-to-Point Committee; he had helped to plan out the course and had supervised the making up and trimming of the fences. + 

“I’m not at all sure we oughtn’t to have made the course a bit stiffer,” he remarked. + 

Brandwick replied that he wouldn’t be saying that if he were having a bump round it himself. + 

Croplady expressed regret that he wasn’t able to ride the horse he’d entered for the Heavy Weights. “That infernal knee of mine went groggy again while I was playing golf on Thursday. But I’ve got ‘Boots’ Brownrigg to ride him for me, so he ought to be in the picture all right.” + 

I gathered that “Boots” Brownrigg was in the “Blues” and had “ridden a clinking good finish at the Guards’ Meeting at Hawthorn Hill the other day.” + 

Brandwick told us that he’d asked Roger Pomfret to ride his young horse. “He’s a mutton-fisted beggar; but the horse is a bit nappy, and young Roger’ll be the man to keep him going at his fences.” + 

Every syllable they uttered made my own private aspirations more preposterous and perishable: my optimism was at a very low ebb as we plodded across a wet pasture to the next obstacle, which had a wide ditch on the takeoff side. + 

“There’s another place where there’ll be trouble for somebody!” Brandwick’s jolly voice seemed to be glorying in the prospect of horses refusing and riders shooting up their necks, or even over their ears. He turned to me. “Let’s see, you’re running that nice-looking bay of yours, aren’t you?” + 

I replied, “Yes, I’m having a ride.” + 

Croplady became knowledgeable about the entries, which had long been a subject for speculation between Stephen and myself. “Quite a hot lot for the Heavy Weights this year. Two of those Cavalry thrusters who keep their nags in Downfield. They’re always rather an unknown quantity.” + 

Stephen remarked that the Colonel’s Cup was well worth winning, and Croplady agreed that it was a much better pot than the Lightweight one, and must have cost the old boy five-and-twenty quid at least. + 

Silent and disheartened, I longed to be alone again; the presence of the other two made it impossible for me to talk naturally to Stephen, and I couldn’t help feeling that they regarded me as an entry which could be ruled out of all serious consideration. The whole affair had become bleakly detached from my previous conception of it. I was just a greenhorn. What chance had I got against Brownrigg of the “Blues,” or those ferociously efficient Cavalry officers? Bicycling back to the station with only just time to catch the train, I visualized myself refusing the first fence and colliding with Roger Pomfret, who was associated in my memory with all my most timorous experiments with the Dumborough. + 

Aunt Evelyn found me an uncommunicative companion that evening; and it wasn’t easy to talk to Dixon about the course when I went to the stable next morning. “I hear there’s a very hot lot entered for the Heavy Weights,” I said, as I watched him polishing away at Cockbird’s glossy coat. My tone was, perhaps, a shade extenuatory. I couldn’t bring myself to speak of Brownrigg of the “Blues.” + 

Dixon straightened himself and passed his hand along Cockbird’s back. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll bet our horse gives some of ’em a shaking up!” he replied. + 

Cockbird gave a playful hoist of his hind quarters and then snatched a mouthful of hay from his rack. I wished that the confidence of my confederates was a little more infectious. + 

IV + 

The races were to be on Wednesday. After exercising our minds on the problem how best to convey Cockbird to the course by two o’clock on that afternoon, we decided against his spending the previous night in Downfield. I suggested that he would probably sleep better in his own stable, which struck me at the time as being improperly expressed, though it was necessary that he should lie down and shut his eyes like everybody else who has something important to do next day. In this connection I should like to mention an odd fact, which is that when I dream about horses, as I often do, they usually talk like human beings, although the things they say, as in most dreams, are only confused fantasias on ordinary speech. + 

Anyhow, it was arranged that Dixon should ride Cockbird to Dumbridge on Wednesday morning, box him to Downfield, put him up at Whatman’s “Hunting and Livery Stables” for two or three hours, and then jog him quietly out to the course, which was about four miles from Downfield. In the meantime I was to ride Harkaway to Dumbridge (I felt that this ride would be better for me than if I drove in the dogcart), catch a later train, and find my way out to the course as best I could. The bag holding my coat, boots, cap, spurs, and weight-cloth would go by the carrier. (I mention these details because they did seem so vastly important at the time.) + 

Cockbird’s night’s rest was, I imagine, normal, and it didn’t occur to me to speculate about Dixon’s. My own slumbers were what I should then have considered inadequate; that is to say, I lay awake for a couple of hours and then slept like a top until Miriam called me at eight. + 

I came down to breakfast reticent and self-conscious. Patient Miriam’s anxiety that I should eat a good breakfast wasn’t well received, and Aunt Evelyn’s forced cheerfulness made me feel as if I were going to be hanged in the afternoon. She had never made any reference to the possibility of her going to see the Races. I have no doubt that she was as sensitive to the precarious outcome of the adventure as I was. For me the whole day, until my race started, was pervaded by the sinking sensation which is commonly called being in a blue funk. But when the stable-boy (his face clearly showing his awareness that he was at close quarters with momentous happenings) had led Harkaway out of the stable, and I had mounted and was trotting through the village, I was conscious of being as fit as I’d ever been in my life, and of being in some way harmonious with the mild, half-clouded April morning which contained me. + 

The morning tasted good; but it had only one meaning: it was the morning of the point-to-points. To have understood the gusto of that physical experience would have been to destroy the illusion which we call youth and immaturity⁠—that unforeseeing actuality which retrospection can transmute into a lucid and orderly emotion. The April morning, as I see it now, symbolized a stage which I had then reached in my earthly pilgrimage. + 

But whatever “bright shoots of everlastingness” my body may have felt, my ordinary mind manifested itself only by instructing me to feel in my coat pocket for the half-sheet of notepaper on which I had written “This is to certify that Mr. G. Sherston’s bay gelding Cockbird has been fairly and regularly hunted with the Ringwell Hounds;” to which the M. F. H. had appended his signature, adding the figures of the current hunting season, which I had carelessly omitted. This document had to be shown at the scales, although when I actually got there the Clerk of the Scales forgot to ask me for it. When I was making sure that it was still in my pocket I was still under the misapprehension that unless I could produce it in the weighing tent I should be disqualified from riding in my race. + 

In the middle of the village I met John Homeward and his van. He was setting out on his monotonous expedition to the county town, and I stopped for a few words with him. His benevolent bearded face made me feel more confident, and so did his gruff voice when he took a stumpy clay pipe out of his mouth to wish me luck. + 

“I’ve asked Tom to put half a crown on for me,” he said; “it’ll be a great day for Butley if you win!” His blunt nod, as I left him sitting under the shadow of his hooded van, was a send-off which stiffened my faltering ambition to prove myself worthy of being the owner of Cockbird. + 

Remembering how I’d bicycled off to the Ringwell Meeting twelve months before, I thought how flabbergasted I should have been if I’d been told that I should be riding in a race there next year. And in spite of that persistent sinking sensation, I was thankful that, at any rate, I had got as far as “having a bump round.” For whatever might happen, I was much superior to any of the spectators. Taking my cap off to two elderly ladies, the Miss Pattons, who passed me on their tricycles with bobs and smiles, I wondered whether it was going to rain. Perhaps the sun came out to show that it was going to be a fine afternoon. When I was on the main road I passed Joey, the lizard-faced stone-breaker, who looked up from his flint-hammering to salute me with a grin. + 

The sun was still shining when I got to the course; but it was now less easy to believe that I had engaged myself to contribute to the entertainment which was attracting such a crowd of cheerful country folk. I felt extraneous and forlorn. Everyone else seemed intent on having as good a time as possible on such a lovely afternoon. I had come briskly out from Downfield on a two-horse charabanc which was waiting outside the station. The journey cost half a crown. Several of my fellow passengers were “bookies” and their clerks, with their name-boards and giant umbrellas; their jocosities accentuated the crudity of the impact on my mind made by the realistic atmosphere of racing. I did my best to feel as much like a “gentleman-rider” as I could, and to forget that I was making my first appearance in a race. + 

The air smelt of trodden turf as I lugged my bag (loaded with fourteen one-pound lead weights) into the dressing-room, which was in a farm building under some elms on the crest of the rising ground which overlooked the sparsely flagged course. After dumping the bag in a corner of the dry-mud floored barn, I went out to look for Cockbird and Dixon. They were nowhere to be seen, so I returned to the dressing-room, reminding myself that Dixon had said he wouldn’t bring “our horse” out there any earlier than he was obliged to, since it would only excite him; I also realized that I should get “rattled” myself unless I kept quiet and reserved my energies for three o’clock. + 

The first race was run at two, and mine was the third event on the card, so I bought that absorbing document and perched myself on an old corn-bin to peruse it. “Riders are requested to return their number-cloths to the Clerk of the Scales immediately after each race.” I had forgotten that number-cloths existed, so that was news to me. “These Steeplechases are held subject to National Hunt Rules as to corrupt and fraudulent practices.” A moment’s reflection convinced me that I need not worry about that admonition; it was sufficiently obvious that I had a clean sheet under National Hunt Rules, though it flattered me to feel that I was at last within their jurisdiction. + 

After these preliminaries I looked inside the card, at the entries. Good heavens, there were fourteen in my race! Several of the names I didn’t know. Captain Silcock’s “Crumpet.” Mr. F. Duckwith’s “Grasshopper.” Those must be the soldiers who hunted from Downfield. Mr. G. Bagwell’s “Kilgrubbin III.” That might be⁠—yes, of course it was⁠—the fat little man on the weedy chestnut, who was always refusing small timber out hunting. Not much danger from him as long as I kept well out of his way at the first fence; and probably he, and several of the others, wouldn’t go to the post after all. My own name looked nice. + 

A blue-jowled man in a yellow waistcoat hurried in, exclaiming, “Can anybody lend me a weight-cloth?” I glanced at my bag and resolved that nothing would induce me to lend him mine (which had yet to receive its baptismal instalment of sweat). Several riders were now preparing for the first race, but no one took any notice of me until ginger-haired Roger Pomfret came in. He had been inspecting the fences, and he wiped his fleshy red face with his sleeve as he sat down and started rummaging in his bag. Tentatively I asked him what he thought of the course. I was quite glad to see someone I knew, though I’d have preferred to see someone else. He chucked me a surly nod, which he supplemented with⁠—“Course? I don’t mind telling you, this something course would break the heart of a blank buffalo. It’s nothing but twists and turns, and there isn’t a something fence you could go fast at without risking your something neck, and a nice hope I’ve got on that blank sketchy jumper of Brandwick’s!” + 

Before I could think of an answer his boon companion in blasphemy, Bill Jaggett, came in (embellished with a brown billycock hat and black and white check breeches). Jaggett began chaffing him about the something unhealthy ride he was going to have in the Heavy Weights. “I’ll lay you a tenner to a fiver you don’t get round without falling,” he guffawed. Pomfret took the bet and called him a pimply faced bastard into the bargain. + 

I thought I might as well get dressed up: when I had pulled my boots on and was very deliberately tucking the straps in with a boot-hook, Stephen strolled in; he was already wearing his faded pink cap, and the same elongated and anxious countenance which I’d seen a year ago. No doubt my own face matched his. When we’d reassured one another about the superlative fitness of our horses he asked if I’d had any lunch, and as I hadn’t he produced a bar of chocolate and an orange, which I was glad to get. Stephen was always thoughtful of other people. + 

The shouts of the bookies were now loudening outside in the sunlight, and when I’d slipped on my raincoat we went out to see what we could of the Lightweight Race. + 

The first two races were little more than the clamour and commotion of a passing procession. The “Open Race” was the main excitement of the afternoon; it was run “in colours,” and there were about a dozen dashing competitors, several of them well-known winners in such events. + 

But everything connected with this contest reached me as though from a long way off, since I was half-stupefied by yawning nervousness. They appeared to be accomplishing something incredible by galloping round the course. I had got to do it myself in half an hour; and what was worse, Dixon was relying on me to put up a creditable performance. He even expected me to give the others “a shaking-up.” Stephen had ceased to be any moral support at all; in spite of his success last year he was nearly as nervous as I was, and when the field for the Open Race had filed out of the hurdle-guarded enclosure, which did duty as the paddock, he disappeared in the direction of Jerry and I was left to face the future alone. + 

Also, as far as I knew, my horse hadn’t yet arrived, and it was with a new species of alarm that I searched for him after I had seen the race start; the Paddock and its environs now looked unfriendly and forsaken. + 

I discovered my confederates in a quiet corner under a hayrick. They seemed a discreet and unassuming pair, but Dixon greeted me with an invigorative grin. “I kept him away from the course as long as I could,” he said confidentially; “he’s as quiet as a sheep, but he knows what he’s here for; he’s staled twice since we got here.” He told me that Mr. Gaffikin was about and had been looking for me. “He says our horse stands a jolly good chance with the going as good as it is.” + 

I said there was one place, in and out of a lane, where I’d have to be careful. + 

We then escorted Cockbird to the Paddock; by the time we were there and I’d fetched my weight-cloth, the Open Race was over and the spectators were trooping back again. Among them was Mr. Gaffikin, who hailed me companionably with “Hullo, old chap; jolly sporting of you to be having a ride!” and thereafter took complete charge of me in a most considerate manner, going with me to the weighing tent with the weight-cloth over his arm, while I, of course, carried my saddle. + 

The winner of the Open Race was weighing in when we arrived, and I stepped diffidently on to the machine immediately after his glorified and perspiring vacation of the seat. Mr. Gaffikin doled out a few leads for me to slip into the leather pouches on the dark blue cloth until I tipped the scale at fourteen stone. The Clerk of the Scales, an unsmiling person with a large sallow face⁠—he was a corn-merchant⁠—verified my name on the card and handed me my number-cloth and armlet; my number was seven: under less exacting conditions I might have wondered whether it was a lucky number, but I was pushed out of the way by Pomfret. Arthur Brandwick (in a grey bowler) was at his elbow, talking nineteen to the dozen; I caught a glimpse of Stephen’s serious face; Colonel Hesmon was with him, behaving exactly the same as last year, except that, having already “given the boy the horse,” he could no longer say that he was going to do so if he won the race. + 

While Dixon was putting the last testing touches to Cockbird’s straps and buckles, the little Colonel came across to assure me that if Jerry didn’t win there was no one he’d rather see first past the judge’s wagon than me. He added that he’d taken a lot of trouble in choosing the Cup⁠—“very nice goblet shape⁠—got it from Stegman & Wilks⁠—excellent old firm in the City.” But his eye wandered away from Cockbird; his sympathies were evidently strongly implicated in Jerry, who was as unperturbed as if he were being put into a brougham to fetch someone from the station. + 

Near him, Nigel Croplady was fussing round his horse, with quite a crowd round him. + 

The terrific “Boots” Brownrigg was puffing a cigarette with apparent unconcern; his black cap was well over his eyes and both hands were plunged in the pockets of a short blue overcoat; from one of the pockets protruded a short cutting whip. His boots were perfection. Spare built and middle sized, he looked absolutely undefeatable; and if he had any doubts about his own abilities he concealed them well. + 

Stifling another yawn, I did my best to imitate his demeanour. The bookies were bawling “Two to one bar one.” Cockbird, stimulated by publicity, now began to give himself the airs of a real restive racehorse, chucking his head about, flattening his ears, and capering sideways in a manner which caused the onlookers to skip hastily out of range of his heels. + 

“I say, that’s a classy looking quad!” exclaimed a youth who appeared to have purchased the Paddock. He consulted his card, and I overheard his companion, as they turned away, saying something about “his jockey looking a bit green.” “We’d better back Nigel’s horse. They say he’ll win for a cert.” + 

For want of anything else to do at this critical moment I asked Dixon whether he’d put Homeward’s half-crown on. He said, “Yes, sir; Mr. Gaffikin’s man has just done it for me, and I’ve got a bit on for myself. It’s a good thing; they’re laying five to one about him. Mr. Stephen’s horse is at two’s.” + 

Mr. Gaffikin chimed in with “Mikado’s a hot favorite. Two to one on, all along the line!” Mikado was Croplady’s horse. + 

Mr. Gaffikin then tied the strings of my cap in a very tight bow; a bell jangled and a stentorian voice shouted, “Now then, gentlemen, I’m going down to the post.” The blue sky suddenly went white; my heart bumped; I felt dazed and breathless. Then Mr. Gaffikin’s remote voice said, “Let me give you a leg-up, old chap”; I grabbed hold of the reins, lifted an awkward foot, and was lifted airily on the slippery saddle: Cockbird gave one prance and then stood still; Dixon was holding him firmly by the head. Pressing my knees into the saddle I overheard Mr. Gaffikin’s ultimate advice. “Don’t go in front unless you can help it; but keep well with ’em.” They both wished me luck and released me to my destiny. + 

I felt as if I’d never been on Cockbird’s back before; everything around me appeared unreal and disconnected from all my previous experience. As I followed Stephen out of the Paddock in a sort of equestrian trance, I caught sight of his father’s face, pale and fixed in its most strenuous expression; his eyes followed his son, on whose departure he was too intent to be able to take in anyone else. We filed through a gate under some trees: “Gentleman George” was standing by the gate; he stared up at me as I passed. “That’s the ’oss for my money,” was all that he said, but his measured tone somehow brought me to my senses, and I was able to look about me when we got down to the starting place. + 

But even then I was much more a passenger than a resolute rider with his wits about him to “pinch” a good start. There were seven others. I kept close to Stephen. We lined up uneasily; while the starter (on his dumpy grey cob) was instructing us to keep the red flags on the right and the white flags on the left (which we already knew) I noticed Pomfret, (on a well-bred, excitable brown) and Brownrigg (Croplady’s bright chestnut looking very compact) already stealing forward on the side furthest from him. + 

When he said “Go” I went with the others, albeit with no sense of initiative. The galloping hoofs sounded strange. But Cockbird felt strong under me and he flicked over the first fence with level and unbroken stride; he was such a big jumper and so quick over his fences that I had to pull him back after each one in order to keep level with Jerry, who was going his best pace all the way. One of the soldiers (in a top-hat) was making the running with Brownrigg and Pomfret close behind him. At the awkward fifth fence (the one on a bank) Pomfret’s horse jumped sideways and blundered as he landed; this caused Pomfret to address him in uncomplimentary language, and at the next obstacle (another awkward one) he ran out to the left, taking one of the soldiers with him. This, to my intense relief, was the last I saw of him. I took it at a place where a hole had been knocked in it in the previous races. The next thing I remember was the brook, which had seemed wide and intimidating when I was on foot and had now attracted a small gathering of spectators. But water-jumps are deceptive things and Cockbird shot over this one beautifully: (Stephen told me afterwards that he’d “never seen a horse throw such an enormous leap”). We went on up a long slope of firm pastureland, and I now became aware of my responsibility; my arms were aching and my fingers were numb and I found it increasingly difficult to avoid taking the lead, for after jumping a couple more fences and crossing a field of light ploughland we soared over a hedge with a big drop and began to go down the other side of the hill. Jerry was outpaced and I was level with Mikado and the Cavalry soldier who had been cutting out the work. As Stephen dropped behind he said, “Go on, George; you’ve got ’em stone-cold.” + 

We were now more than three parts of the way round, and there was a sharp turn left-handed where we entered on the last half-mile of the course. I lost several lengths here by taking a wide sweep round the white flag, which Brownrigg almost touched with his left boot. At the next fence the soldier went head over heels, so it was just as well for me that I was a few lengths behind him. He and his horse were still rolling about on the ground when I landed well clear of them. Brownrigg looked round and then went steadily on across a level and rather wet field which compelled me to take my last pull at Cockbird. Getting on to better ground, I remembered Mr. Gaffikin’s advice, and let my horse go after him. When I had drawn up to him it was obvious that Cockbird and Mikado were the only ones left in it. I was alone with the formidable Brownrigg. The difference between us was that he was quite self-contained and I was palpitating with excitement. + 

We were side by side: approaching the fourth fence from the finish he hit his horse and went ahead; this caused Cockbird to quicken his pace and make his first mistake in the race by going too fast at the fence. He hit it hard and pecked badly; Brownrigg, of course, had steadied Mikado for the jump after the quite legitimate little piece of strategy which so nearly caused me to “come unstuck.” Nearly, but not quite. For after my arrival at Cockbird’s ears his recovery tipped me halfway back again and he cantered on across the next field with me clinging round his neck. At one moment I was almost in front of his chest. I said to myself, “I won’t fall off,” as I gradually worked my way back into the saddle. My horse was honestly following Mikado, and my fate depended on whether I could get into the saddle before we arrived at the next fence. This I just succeeded in doing, and we got over somehow. I then regained my stirrups and set off in urgent pursuit. + 

After that really remarkable recovery of mine, life became lyrical, beatified, ecstatic, or anything else you care to call it. To put it tersely, I just galloped past Brownrigg, sailed over the last two fences, and won by ten lengths. Stephen came in a bad third. I also remember seeing Roger Pomfret ride up to Jaggett in the Paddock and inform him in a most aggressive voice that he’d got to “something well pay up and look pleasant.” + 

Needless to say that Dixon’s was the first face I was aware of; his eager look and the way he said, “Well done,” were beyond all doubt the quintessence of what my victory meant for me. All else was irrelevant at that moment, even Stephen’s unselfish exultation and Mr. Gaffikin’s loquacious enthusiasm. As for Cockbird, no words could ever express what we felt about him. He had become the equine equivalent of Divinity. + 

Excited as I was, an inward voice cautioned me to control my volubility. So when I had weighed in and returned with my saddle to find a cluster of knowing ones casting an eye over the winner, I just waited soberly until Dixon had rubbed him down, mounted, and ridden serenely out of sight. The Colonel was on the spot to congratulate me on my “nailing good performance” and, better still, to give Dixon his due for having got Cockbird so fit. Those few lofty minutes when he was making much of his horse were Dixon’s reward for all the trouble he had taken since Cockbird had been in his charge. He had needed no such incentive, but he asked for nothing more. While he was on his way back to Downfield he may also have thought to himself how he had made me into a good enough rider to have got round the course without a catastrophe. (He had yet to hear full details of the race⁠—including my peculiar acrobatics toward the end, which had been witnessed by no one except the rider of Mikado, who had been kind enough to tell Croplady that he never saw such a thing in his life, which was, I hoped, intended as a compliment.) + 

When I had watched Dixon’s departure I found that public interest was being focused on the Yeomanry Team-Race. I was glad to slip away by myself: a few fields out in the country I relaxed my legs on a five-barred gate and contemplated my achievement with as much mental detachment as I could muster. Even in those days I had an instinct for getting the full flavour of an experience. Perhaps I was fortunate in not yet having become aware that the winner of the last race is forgotten as soon as the next one starts. + 

Forty minutes later I had claimed my cup. (There was no ceremony of presentation.) Having crammed the ebony pedestal into my kit-bag I came out into the Paddock with the cup in my other hand. It was convenient to carry, for it had handles to it. + 

Good-natured Arthur Brandwick came up and offered me a lift back to Downfield. While he was patting me on the back I caught sight of a figure which seemed somehow familiar. A loose-built ruddy faced young sportsman was talking to a couple of jovial whiskered farmers; he sat on a shooting-stick with his thin neatly gaitered legs straightened; a brown felt hat was tipped well over his blunt nose, for the five o’clock sun was glaring full in his eyes. I wondered who it was he reminded me of. Brandwick answered my unspoken question. + 

“D’you twig who that is?” I shook my head. “Well, take another good look at him. It’s our new Master, and a hell of a good lad he is, from all I’ve heard. Up till a month ago everyone thought the country’d have to be hunted by a Committee next season. There was something fishy about every one of the coves who’d applied for the Mastership. And then this chap wrote and offered to hunt the hounds himself and put up fifteen hundred a year if we guaranteed him another two thousand. Hardly a soul knew about it till today. We’re lucky to get him. He’s been hunting a good rough country in Ireland the last two seasons and showing rare sport. He’s run across for a couple of days to have a look at us.” As we walked away the new Master turned his head and favoured us with a slow and rather blank stare. + 

“What did you say his name was?” I asked, when we were out of earshot. Brandwick informed me that his name was Milden⁠—Denis Milden⁠—and I knew that I’d known it all the time, though I hadn’t set eyes on him since I was eleven years old. + 

Aquamarine and celestial were the shoals of sunset as I hacked pensively home from Dumbridge. The Colonel’s Cup clinked and joggled against my saddle. Time was irrelevant. But I was back at Butley by eight o’clock, and Cockbird, who had returned by an earlier train, was safe and sound; a little uneasily he wandered around his loose-box, rustling the deep straw, but always going back to the manger for another mouthful of clover-hay. Dixon serenely digested triumph with his tea; presently he would go out to the Rose and Crown to hand Homeward his multiplied half-crown and overawe the gossips with his glory. + 

Absolved and acquiescent was the twilight as I went quietly across the lawn and in at the garden door to the drawing-room. Aunt Evelyn’s armchair scrooped on the beeswaxed floor as she pushed it back and stood up with her bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. For the first time since my success I really felt like a hero. And Miriam served the dinner with the tired face of a saint that seemed lit with foreknowledge of her ultimate reward. But at that time I didn’t know what her goodness meant. + 

At the end of our evening, when they had gone upstairs with my highly coloured history of the day in their heads, I strolled out into the garden; for quite a long time I stared at the friendly lights that twinkled from the railway-station and along the dark Weald. I had brought something home with me as well as the Cup. There was this new idea of Denis Milden as Master. For I hadn’t forgotten him, and my persistent studying of Horse and Hound and The Hunting Directory had kept me acquainted with his career as an amateur huntsman since he had left Oxford. A dog barked and a train went along the Weald⁠ ⁠… the last train to London, I thought.⁠ ⁠… + 

Going back to the drawing-room, I lit a pair of candles which made their miniature gold reflections on the shining surface of the massive Cup. I couldn’t keep my eyes away from it. I looked round the shadowed room on which all my childhood and adolescence had converged, but everything led back to the talisman; while I gazed and gazed on its lustre I said to myself, aloud, “It can’t be true that it’s really there on the table!” The photograph of Watts’s Love and Death was there on the wall; but it meant no more to me than the strangeness of the stars which I had seen without question, out in the quiet spring night. I was secure in a cosy little universe of my own, and it had rewarded me with the Colonel’s Cup. My last thought before I fell asleep was, “Next season I’ll come out in a pink coat.” + 