last race of the same afternoon the pair again met at two miles, when, suitably shod, and with seven to four betted on him, Carbine came home seven lengths to the good. There had been considerable excitement and applause when the black horse downed the great gun at the mile, but when old Carbine fairly vindicated himself in such smashing style, a generous and sporting public went wild with enthusiasm. Hats, umbrellas, even field glasses, were thrown into the air, and the shouts were deafening. Emotion like this, when money is not the incentive, is good. And—last scene of all which closed this strange, eventful history—in the A.J.C. Plate, on the fourth day, at three miles, and with the bookmakers asking ten to one, the great horse cantered home from Correze and Greygown. The curtain had fallen. The racecourse saw the familiar figure no more. Which champion, then, shall be dubbed “The Champion of Champions?” Men, and good judges, who have seen The Barb, tell us that, as a horse, he was magnificent. Lengthy, but beautifully ribbed up, immense loins, great powerful, muscular quarters, perfect shoulders, the best of legs, and altogether a noble-looking animal. Carbine was scarcely that. He possessed grand staying points, of course. “A loin and a back that would carry a house, and quarters to lift you slap over the town.” His barrel was all that it ought to be, deep, but not cumbersome. His shoulders were excellent, his rein long. But, in proportion to the rest of his frame, he was light in the gaskin, not great in the forearm, small—7¾ inches—and inclined to be round and long in his canon bones. Neither a “pretty” nor a perfect animal. Both horses possessed the temperament that heroes are made of. Courage, coolness, sagacity were theirs. Carbine ran his own race. He seized his own opportunities, and took an opening on his own initiative, when he saw it, through which he might thread his way in a big field. And he recognised the winning post as well as he knew his manger. He was determined to win, and he was perfectly well aware when a supreme effort was necessary. One might almost say, too, that he had the saving gift of humour. As he emerged from the enclosure in order to take his breather before a race, he almost invariably indulged in a little pantomime of his own, partly for his own edification, and partly for the amusement of his friends, the crowd. When he stepped on to the course from the enclosure, he would “gammon” that he saw something up the running which attracted his attention, and he would stand with his ears at full cock, gazing as at an apparition. No effort on the part of his jockey could induce him to walk forwards. Then Walter Hickenbotham appeared from the wings, as it were, and endeavoured to “shoo” him on. No result. Now Walter would flap his handkerchief at him, and the old fellow might walk a few paces, and then take fresh stock of the imaginary object in the distance. Another full stop.