The remaining riders fought their way round the flags, with strange tangents and interlacing curves; all, that is to say, save the grey horse, who held on unswervingly and made straight for the river. The spectators, seated on the low bank at its edge, left their seats with singular unanimity. The majority fled, a little boy turned a somersault backwards into the water, but three or four hardier spirits tore off their coats, swung them like flails in front of the grey, and threw their caps in his face, with a wealth of objurgation that I have rarely heard equalled. "The speed was in him and he couldn't turn," explained one of my neighbours, at the top of his voice, as the grey, yielding to public opinion, returned to the course and resumed the race. "That horse is no good," said a dapper young priest, who had joined our crowd on the rock. "Look at his great flat feet! You'd bake a cake on each of them!" "Well, that's the case indeed, Father," replied a grizzled old farmer, "but he's a fine cool horse, and a great farming horse for ever. Be gance! He'd plough the rocks!" "Well, he'll get a nice view of the race, anyway," said the young priest, "he has it all before him." "They don't seem to be getting any delay with the water-jump," said some one else regretfully. "Ah, what's in it but the full of a few tin cans!" said my adherent. "Well, for all, it knocked a good lep out o' Rambling Katty: she went mountains over it!" "Look south! Look south! They're coming on again, and only five o' them in it----" The cheering was hotter this time, and it was entirely characteristic that it was the riders who were shouted for and not the horses. "They'll win now this turn--there's three o' them very thick, that's a nice tidy race," said the old farmer. "Good boy, Kenny! Go on, Kenny!" bellowed some one on a lower ledge. "Who's second, coming up to the flag now?" panted Philippa, who was hanging on to the collar of my coat and trying to see over my shoulder. "That's Jimmy Kenny," responded the man below, turning a black-muzzled face up towards us, his light eyes gleaming between their black lashes in the sunshine, like aquamarines. I recognised Peter Lynch, whom we had met earlier in the day. "It's young Kenny out of the shop," explained the old farmer to me; "he rides very nate." No one was found to endorse his opinion. The horses came on, sweating and blowing, the riders, by this time very red in the face, already taking to their whips. By some intricate process of jostling, young Kenny got the inside place at the first flag. "Now is he nate! What was I saying!" exulted the old farmer. "Lyney! Lyney!" roared the faithful gallery, as the leaders hustled round the second flag and went away up the course. "Up, Kenny!" replied the raucous tenor of Peter Lynch in solitary defiance.