"Knight Errant's going best," Chris said. "By Jove, can't he jump! Just through the top of the fence where the 'give' is!" The horses galloped past, and Gay put up her glasses as they rounded the bend into the back stretch. "Two more down," she said, "and at the plain fence too! It's a bit on the angle, isn't it, Chris?" He did not reply. He was watching the three remaining runners approach the water with a quiet smile. "You'll win your gloves there if anywhere, Gay," he said. "George never did like the water." The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the expected happened. George's horse galloped strongly up to the guard fence, dwelt for a second, and then gave a tremendous bound which carried him clear over the water. The impetus was evidently too much for his rider, who abandoned his reins, and incidentally his whip too, at the very moment his mount took off. With a shriek of despair (which Gay declared she heard quite plainly), he described a parabola in the air, and descended in a heap in the middle of the water. His horse galloped on with the other two--it was not the first time his owner had parted company with him without apparent reason--and he showed his sense of the situation by lobbing along behind the others, thoroughly enjoying himself. George remained in the water till he thought they had all gone over. He had no intention of being jumped on if he could help it, and he had sense enough to lie where he fell (and he fell pretty often), knowing that a horse coming behind cannot dodge you, if you are trying to dodge _him_. Then Lossie's admirer crawled out, a dripping, miserable-looking object, and made his way towards the paddock. Passing close to the coach, Chris called out to him, "Not hurt, are you, George?" The reply was indistinct, though Gay supplied one. "Hurt? Of course not!" she said, chuckling; "only badly frightened! And anyway, I've won my gloves!" Soon after, Chris went over to change, and Gay was all impatience for his race to begin. "You'll see something worth looking at," she informed the others. "Whenever I see Chris ride I think there's nothing like Steeplechasing, and whenever I see Mr. Mackrell drive, I think nothing can touch Trotting. I really believe I prefer Trotting, though, for it hasn't the danger of this game, and I don't like to see anyone I'm fond--anyone I know--run such risks." "After all," said Effie, "it's a gentleman's sport, and if the dear boy _will_ break his neck at it, he must. But as to your Trotting mania, Gay," hurriedly changing the conversation as Gay whitened, "frankly, I don't think it's good enough for you, and Carlton ought to be ashamed of himself for infecting you with his taste for it." "He didn't," retorted Gay. "I maintain that a perfect Trotter is every bit as pretty a sight as a horse racing--and not half so dangerous."