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Sitting in Judgment
by
“I always keep a scale of points,” he said. “Give ’em so many points for each fence. Then give ’em so many for make, shape, and quality, and so many for the way they jump.”
The fat man looked infinite contempt. “I never want any scale of points,” he said. “One look at the ‘orses is enough for me. A man that judges by points ain’t a judge at all, I reckon. What do you think?” he went on, turning to the squatter. “Do you go by points?”
“Never,” said the squatter, firmly; which, as he had never judged before in his life, was strictly true.
“Well, we’ll each go our own way,” said the little man. “I’ll keep points. Send ’em in.”
“Number One, Conductor!” roared the ring steward in a voice like thunder, and a long-legged grey horse came trotting into the ring and sidled about uneasily. His rider pointed him for the first jump, and went at it at a terrific pace. Nearing the fence the horse made a wild spring, and cleared it by feet, while the crowd yelled applause. At the second jump he raced right under the obstacle, propped dead, and rose in the air with a leap like a goat, while the crowd yelled their delight again, and said: “My oath! ain’t he clever?” As he neared the third fence he shifted about uneasily, and finally took it at an angle, clearing a wholly unnecessary thirty feet. 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.