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“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.”