"She has a score o' years surely, but she's as wicked as a bee," said another. "Lyney's very knacky; he couldn't be bate," said the first man. "Well, well, look at Jimmy Kenny and his father, and the two o' them riding!" went on the commentator. "Faith, I'd give the father the sway. Jimmy's riding uneven. When the nag is rising, he's falling." "Sure he has his two elbows into his ears! Go on, Lyney boy!" The horses pounded past, splashing through the shallow flood of the water-jump, and trampling over such furze-bushes as had withstood the vicissitudes of the steeplechase. They passed from our view, and Dr. Fraser and I agreed that we should be justified in staying where we were till the finish. Three times they passed us, enveloped in a travelling roar of encouragements, and with each passing the supporters of Lyney and Kenny bayed and howled more emulously. The competitors, now, to all practical intent, reduced to the Kennys, _père et fils_, and Lyney, again disappeared on their last round, and the volleys of incitement became a dropping fire of criticism. "Kenny's mare is the one, the others is too crippled." "She'll not bate Lyney! Divil blast the bate she have in her! she's too dropped and too narra!" "What horse is first?" "I d'know; only one, I think." "Look at young Kenny coming up on the father now!" "Ah, there's more in the owld fella, never fear him!" "Come on, Lyney! Come on, Kenny! Lyney! Lyney!" Lyney won. The bee-like wickedness of the yellow mare apparently served her as well as youth, and despite the fact that she was but little over fourteen hands and was carrying twelve stone, she finished a dozen lengths in front. The interest of the race was at once transferred to the struggle for second place between the Kennys. "Come on, Tom! Come on, Jimmy! Begor' the father have it!" yelled the crowd, as Kenny _père_, flourishing his whip over his grey head, finished half a length in front of his son. "Them two tight wheels at the corner, 'twas there he squeezed the advantage on the son." "No, but the father had a drop taken, 'twas that that gave him the heart." Dr. Fraser and I got off our fence and steered for Lyney. He was in the act of throwing the reins on the pony's neck and himself off her back as we arrived. "Here!" he said to the owner, "take your old skin!"--he tossed his whip on to the ground--"and your old whip too!" The owner took the "old skin" by her drooping and dripping head, and picked up the whip, in reverential submission, and the ring of admirers evidently accepted this mood of the hero as entirely befitting his dignity. Dr. Fraser advanced through them with the effortless impressiveness of a big woman, and made her enquiries about the pony. Lyney dropped the hero manner.