The bridle of stout plaited greenhide held, and after a few wild plunges the horse went careering madly away over the plain towards the acacia scrub, the steelyard still dangling from the rein. The scene that ensued is entirely beyond me to describe. Beneath the boughs and rafters of the fallen humpy--kicking, cursing, and shouting--struggled forty or fifty men, fighting wildly to release themselves. "Who the dickens done that?" "Get orf my 'ed, whoever you are!" "Here, pull us out o' this, somebody!"--all sorts of weird cries and exclamations floated out from the mix-up, until at last, with many oaths, they emerged one by one from their captivity. Meanwhile the crowd, whooping excitedly, were trailing over the plain in the wake of the flying horse. Talk about "two souls with but a single thought," here were two hundred in similar case. Their thought, of course, was the scales, without which the steeplechase could not be decided. There were men riding, men running, men in carts, men in buggies, men with coats and men without, all laughing, cursing, and calling, while off in front went the runaway. Away they all sailed helter-skelter, some spreading out to the right and left to head the horse off before he reached the scrub. Fortunately for all of us the fugitive's progress was hampered by the dangling scales, and so he was ultimately turned back, caught, and led triumphantly to the scene of the wrecked humpy, where the scales were hung to the bough of a tree, Lean weighed, and all was once more ready for the final. There was more than a suspicion among the crowd that Lean had purposely arranged this little diversion in order that he might go out without weighing--an obvious advantage to him, I having already weighed. One thing he had succeeded in doing--delaying the race until the sun had set and dusk began to fall, making it almost impossible to see across the course in the open, much less in the needle-bush.