In him I seem to be remembering all that was warmhearted and exhilarating in my days with the Ringwell, for he showed a special interest in Stephen Colwood and myself, and was never so well-contented as when he was showing us the way over an awkward place or giving us the benefit of his ripe experience and intimate knowledge. There was something noble about him. And so (I choose to think) it was for “Gentleman George” that I kept the kindliest of my meditations as I was bicycling to the point-to-point course.
It was peaceful and pleasant to be squatting on a gate and opening the package of sandwiches that Miriam had made me. The gate opened on to a boggy lane which ran through Crutchett’s Wood—a well-known covert. But Crutchett’s Wood was beginning to look more idyllic than sporting now; it was dotted with primrose bunches, and the wild anemones were numerous. Although I saw them with placid appreciation my uppermost thought was that the country was drying up nicely; deep going was believed to be a disadvantage to Cockbird, who was supposed to possess a turn of speed which he would have more chance of showing if the ground were dry.
The early afternoon was quiet and Sunday-like as I sat with half a ham-sandwich in my hand; a saffron butterfly fluttered aimlessly along the hedge; miles away the grey-green barrier of the downs overlooked the inactive Weald, and I thought I’d rather like to be up there, by the old windmill on Ditchbury Beacon.
Discarding this unsportsmanlike notion I went on my way; half an hour later my uncompanioned identity had been merged in my meeting with Stephen and we were very deliberately inspecting the first few fences. There was a stake-and-bound hedge on a bank which we didn’t much like the look of. While we were still planted in front of it the cheery voice of Arthur Brandwick hailed us with “That’s a place where you’ll have to take a pull at your old horse, Steve.” With him was Nigel Croplady, wearing white gaiters and puffing a cigar; his somewhat supercilious recognition of my existence made me feel that I had no business to be there at all. Croplady was on the Point-to-Point Committee; he had helped to plan out the course and had supervised the making up and trimming of the fences.
“I’m not at all sure we oughtn’t to have made the course a bit stiffer,” he remarked.
Brandwick replied that he wouldn’t be saying that if he were having a bump round it himself.
Croplady expressed regret that he wasn’t able to ride the horse he’d entered for the Heavy Weights. “That infernal knee of mine went groggy again while I was playing golf on Thursday. But I’ve got ‘Boots’ Brownrigg to ride him for me, so he ought to be in the picture all right.”
I gathered that “Boots” Brownrigg was in the “Blues” and had “ridden a clinking good finish at the Guards’ Meeting at Hawthorn Hill the other day.”
Brandwick told us that he’d asked Roger Pomfret to ride his young horse. “He’s a mutton-fisted beggar; but the horse is a bit nappy, and young Roger’ll be the man to keep him going at his fences.”
Every syllable they uttered made my own private aspirations more preposterous and perishable: my optimism was at a very low ebb as we plodded across a wet pasture to the next obstacle, which had a wide ditch on the takeoff side.
“There’s another place where there’ll be trouble for somebody!” Brandwick’s jolly voice seemed to be glorying in the prospect of horses refusing and riders shooting up their necks, or even over their ears. He turned to me. “Let’s see, you’re running that nice-looking bay of yours, aren’t you?”
I replied, “Yes, I’m having a ride.”
Croplady became knowledgeable about the entries, which had long been a subject for speculation between Stephen and myself. “Quite a hot lot for the Heavy Weights this year. Two of those Cavalry thrusters who keep their nags in Downfield. They’re always rather an unknown quantity.”
Stephen remarked that the Colonel’s Cup was well worth winning, and Croplady agreed that it was a much better pot than the Lightweight one, and must have cost the old boy five-and-twenty quid at least.
Silent and disheartened, I longed to be alone again; the presence of the other two made it impossible for me to talk naturally to Stephen, and I couldn’t help feeling that they regarded me as an entry which could be ruled out of all serious consideration. The whole affair had become bleakly detached from my previous conception of it. I was just a greenhorn. What chance had I got against Brownrigg of the “Blues,” or those ferociously efficient Cavalry officers? Bicycling back to the station with only just time to catch the train, I visualized myself refusing the first fence and colliding with Roger Pomfret, who was associated in my memory with all my most timorous experiments with the Dumborough.
Aunt Evelyn found me an uncommunicative companion that evening; and it wasn’t easy to talk to Dixon about the course when I went to the stable next morning. “I hear there’s a very hot lot entered for the Heavy Weights,” I said, as I watched him polishing away at Cockbird’s glossy coat. My tone was, perhaps, a shade extenuatory. I couldn’t bring myself to speak of Brownrigg of the “Blues.”
Dixon straightened himself and passed his hand along Cockbird’s back. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll bet our horse gives some of ’em a shaking up!” he replied.
Cockbird gave a playful hoist of his hind quarters and then snatched a mouthful of hay from his rack. I wished that the confidence of my confederates was a little more infectious.
IV
The races were to be on Wednesday. After exercising our minds on the problem how best to convey Cockbird to the course by two o’clock on that afternoon, we
