Much depended on Cockbird; but much more depended on me. There were moments when I felt acutely conscious of the absolute nullity of my past as a race-rider. It wasn’t easy to discuss the event when one was limited by a tacit avowal that one had no idea what it would feel like. The void in my experience caused circumlocutions. My only authority was Stephen, whose well-known narrative of last year’s race I was continually paraphrasing. The fact that the Ringwell country was so far away from our own familiar hunts added to the anxious significance of my attempt. How could we—humble denizens of an inglorious unlimited region—hope to invade successfully the four-day-a-week immensity which contained the Colonel and his coveted Cup?
Such was the burden of my meditations while I lugged the garden roller up and down the tennis lawn after tea, while the birds warbled and scolded among the laurels and arbutuses in the latening March twilight and Aunt Evelyn tinkled Handel’s “Harmonious Blacksmith” on the piano in the drawing-room.
III
It will have been observed that, in the course of my career as a sportsman, I was never able to believe that I could do a thing until I had done it. Whatever quality it was which caused this tentative progress toward proficiency, it gave intensity to everything that I did. I do not claim that it was unusual—this nervousness of mine about my first point-to-point race. On the contrary, I am sure that it was a normal and exemplary state of mind. Anyone who cares to do so is at liberty to make fun of the trepidations which a young man carries about with him and conceals. But there is a risk in such ridicule. As I remember and write, I grin, but not unkindly, at my distant and callow self and the absurdities which constitute his chronicle. To my mind the only thing that matters is the resolve to do something. Middle-aged retrospection may decide that it wasn’t worth doing; but the perceptions of maturity are often sapless and restrictive; and “the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,” even though they are only about buying a racing-cap.
A week before the Races I went to London and bought a cap with a jutting peak; it was made of black silk, with strings that hung down on each side until they had been tied in front. I had remarked, quite casually, to Stephen, that I supposed a top-hat was rather uncomfortable for racing, and he had advised me about the cap, telling me to be sure to get one which came well down over my ears, “for there’s nothing that looks so unworkmanlike as to have a pair of red ears sticking out under your cap.” Whereupon he pulled one of mine, which, as he said, were big enough to catch any wind there was.
I also bought a weight-cloth. The Heavyweight Racers had to carry fourteen stone, and after Dixon had weighed me and my hunting saddle on the old weighing machine in the harness-room, we came to the conclusion that, assuming our antiquated machine to be accurate, I should be required to carry twelve pounds of lead.
“Thank heaven it wasn’t thirteen,” I thought, as I went into the stable to give Cockbird a few well-washed carrots.
He certainly was looking an absolute picture, though Dixon said he’d like to get a shade more of the meat off him. As he nipped playfully at my sleeve I marvelled at my good fortune in being the possessor of such unparalleled perfection.
With an access of elation, I ran back to the house in a hailstorm. The sun was out again by the time I was upstairs brushing my hair for luncheon. I got out my new cap and tried it on before the glass. Then Miriam bumped into the room with a can of hot water, and as I hadn’t time to snatch it off I stood there with the strings hanging down, looking, no doubt, a bit of a fool.
“Oh, sir, you did give me a turn!” she ejaculated, “I’d hardly have known you in that there jockey-cap!” She added that I’d be the death of them all before I’d done.
During luncheon Aunt Evelyn remarked that she did so hope it wouldn’t be wet for the point-to-points. She had never seen one in her life, but she had once been to Dumborough Races, which she considered dangerous. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she still visualized a point-to-point as a sort of paper-chase, and I had said nothing to counteract this notion, although I did not want to minimize the grandeur of next week’s events. Aunt Evelyn’s intense love of horses made Cockbird the object of an admiration which almost equalled my own. This, combined with her unshakeable faith in Dixon, gave her a comfortable feeling that I was quite safe on Cockbird. But when Miriam, rather tactlessly, blurted out, “Mr. George hasn’t half got a lovely jockey-cap!” she showed symptoms of alarm.
“Oh, I do hope the jumps won’t be very big!” she exclaimed. To which I replied, somewhat boastfully, that I meant to get over them whatever they might be like.
“I’m going over to walk round the course with Stephen on Sunday. He says it’s a course that wants knowing,” I said, helping myself to some more tapioca pudding.
Stephen had warned me that I shouldn’t be able to stay at the Rectory for the Races, because his mother
