That gentleman had never ridden a race before, but was a fair cross-country rider before he saw Australia, and since then the riding of different sorts of horses had, of course, tended to improve both seat and hands. He was aware of the principles of race-riding, and though Bob Clarke, Hamilton, Forbes, and Churbett had semi-professional skill, he yet trusted, with the befitting courage of youth, to hold his own in that tilt-yard.
He had borrowed a set of colours, and looking at himself in the glass arrayed as in the traditional races of England, was not dissatisfied with his appearance. He found himself wondering whether he should be regarded with indulgence by the critical eyes of Miss Christabel, or indeed the penetrating orbs of Miss Fane. Was there a chance of his winning? Would it not be a triumph if, in spite of the consummate horsemanship of Hamilton and Bob Clarke, the reputation of Grey Surrey, he should win the prize? The thought was intoxicating. He dared not indulge it. He partially enveloped himself in an overcoat, which concealed the glories of his black and scarlet racing-jacket, the only silken garment which the modern cavalier is permitted to wear (how differently they ruffled it in the days of the second Charles!), and hied him to the course.
Here he was met by congratulations on all sides.
‘Glad to see you’ve taken to the amateur jock line, Effingham,’ said Churbett. ‘There’s a world of fun in it, though it involves early rising. It’s awfully against the grain with me, but I assure you I look forward to it every year now. It _compels_ me to take exercise.’
‘That view of racing never struck me before,’ said Wilfred. ‘But when we’re at Yass, you know, one must follow the fashion.’
‘Especially when certain people look interested. Aha! Effingham, you’re an awfully prudent card; but we’re all alike, I expect.’
‘Pooh, pooh! why shouldn’t I take a turn at the pigskin as well as you and the others?’ said Wilfred, evading the impeachment; ‘and this sort of thing is awfully catching, you know.’
‘Very catching, indeed,’ assented Mr. Churbett. ‘Is that Miss Fane on the brown horse next to Mrs. Snowden? Ladylike-looking girl, isn’t she? Suppose we go and get a bet out of her?’