THE Westleigh Horse Show was a county event; everybody who had any connection with horses or who owned an acre of land in a thirty-mile radius was bound to be there. The Hunt, of course, was strongly represented-in fact, the Horse Show Committee was practically the Hunt Committee, and there was a separate enclosure for subscribers. The huntsman and whips were there, acting as executive assistants, and (in their best uniform) were mounted on the pick of the Hunt horses. Needless to say, the majority of the prizes were for riding-horses, and the jumping classes were numerous. Dicky's big Peter was entered for the Hunt competition, and the clause in the rules that stipulated that such entrants were to be ridden by subscribers had cost Betty's father twenty-five guineas: the secretary who had instituted this competition was no fool in financial matters. The Open Jumping was concluding, and two old stagers of the ring were preparing to jump off a tie for the second time that year, when Betty slipped away from the car to the line of temporary stalls at the back

of the enclosure where the horses waited. Carson, her host's groom, was waiting for her, and her, and as she approached she saw her host, Sir James Glaisher, coming from Peter's stall. Well, young woman? he said. Feeling nervous ? You've got lots of time. I think I'll take you back to the car and give you a glass of champagne, eh? No? Well, perhaps you're right. Now, I've just been talking to Carson, and I've made him put a martingale on that horse. Dicky may be used to his ways, but he's not tried him in a show-ring yet. It can't make much difference to the horse, and what it does make will be on the right side. Can't have 'em too collected, you know." A burst of cheering sounded from round the ring, and the band began playing. "Right you are, Carson-bring the horse out.”

Betty was a little disturbed in her mind. Dicky's letter, in which he had consented to her riding Peter in the show, had not been long or discursive, but it had certainly stipulated for the absence of a martingale. It is difficult, however, for ladies of seventeen,

however modern they may be, to argue with hosts of mature age and experience, and Betty allowed herself to be swung up to the big horse's back without voicing her doubts. A moment later she forgot such trifles in the thrill of excitement that went through her as she looked out across the crowd from her commanding elevation. Carson took a rein and began to lead Peter up and down among the round dozen of other entrants that were parading near the entrance to the show-ring. A sound of hammering from beyond the crowd spoke of repairs and preparation of the fences. Peter was a longlegged chestnut of queer temper, good breeding, and undeniable pace and jumping power. His manners and temper accounted for Dicky's possession of him, his late owner having parted from him in haste after a distressing episode at a meet of hounds, which had started with a light-hearted use of heavily-rowelled spurs, and had finished with five terrific bucks and a smashed hat. As a hunter he was excellent, if you knew his particular dislikes-dislikes which were fortunately forgotten when hounds were running; as a hack he was, owing to his nervous and uncertain ways on the road, hardly a lady's horse. To-day Betty had an inkling of trouble: the horse was very much on his toes, was rather fidgety, and had a tendency to throw his Roman

nosed head about a trick he had not shown before. An official called out a number, and a neatly-dressed youth on a rather weedy blood mare turned into the enclosure to be greeted with a storm of hand-clapping. A single cornet sounded, and Betty knew that in a few minutes the same cornet would sound again to signal the beginning of her ordeal. She heard Carson saying something about the car and "Mr Dick," but paid no attention; she was taking a quick glance over her own clothes at the moment, for if she was going to break her neck in five minutes' time she did feel it important that she should be able to stand close inspection in the mortuary. Her neat rig passed the critical review successfully, and she felt better. She had when dressing that morning taken into account the possibility of concussion, fractured femurs, and other mishaps which would imply her being disrobed in an ambulance tent by a strange doctor and yet more critical female friends, and with true feminine forethought had donned her best crêpe-de-. An official called a number that seemed familiar to her, and she felt Peter's head turned towards the gap; she gathered up the reins and settled closer in the saddle.

A group of judges, a low hurdle, a mass of white faces, and a feeling that the ring was absurdly small and cramped. Somebody beside her smiled

encouragingly and patted the horse's neck, a cornet sounded, and she was away. Peter flew the hurdle in a twenty-fivefoot leap, pig-jumped twice, and plunged at the first jump -a five-foot gate. His head sawed from side to side, the reins slipped in her hands, and she knew what was coming. He refused, and refused with a sideways plunge that brought her a cheer for her firm seat as the horse swung round. Peter plunged back a few strides-then she got his head round, and instantly he went up on end. He came to earth and tugged at the hard-held reins for a chance to rear again. A figure in a brown tweed suit vaulted the white palings ten feet away and seized the horse's head, jerking the curb-rein from her hands. The stranger seemed mad, but as Peter seemed mad too this did not surprise her at all. She had a glimpse of a brown hand that slashed quickly with a very sharp pocketknife, and she realised that a new standing martingale had been ruined in two seconds or less, leaving a short end on the nose-band and another on the girth. A brown face spoke with a snap over Peter's forehead-"Damn it, I told you not to put it on. You've got two minutes. Get on!" She clamped her legs down to the saddle-flaps, swung the horse round, and saw the gate before her. A moment later it was well below and behind her, and Peter landed beyond it with the elastic mastery of a

willing horse. They went round the course like winners round the canal turn at Aintree, jumping big and free and at racing pace. The water-jump came last, and Peter, well warmed-up and thoroughly enjoying it, cleared it by three feet, having approached it at a little over normal National speed. A roar of cheering followed her out of the ring, a judge ran towards her in the entrance with obvious congratulatory intent, Peter gave his best imitation of jumping an invisible six-foot wire, the judge swerved into safety, and she came cantering up to the line of stalls with Carson panting and gasping by her near stirrup.

As the horse stopped she slacked the reins and leaned forward to pat his wet neck. Carson was wildly excited, and full of conversation. "You won't lose more'n half a point, miss, and you'll be second at least. There's only one horse in it that'll beat you-I wouldn't get off, miss: they may call you in again.'

Betty looked over the crowd at the ring; a heavy halfbred mare was engaged in knocking the top off every obstacle in the course, and a small bay horse was just leaving through the entrance gate. "How did that bay horse do?" she asked.

"No mistakes, miss. That's a professional jumper, and you couldn't have beat him." A figure detached itself from the crowd in the Hunt enclosure

and strolled towards the horse lines; Betty noticed that it was wearing a brown suit and carried a leather strap in one hand. Oh look, Carson! My martingale get it, will you?" The groom rolled bandylegged away, and the brown man carelessly threw the strap to him and continued to approach. Betty stiffened a little in her seat. She had only a vague memory of what had actually been said by this very useful spectator when he had so suddenly taken charge of her horse, but she distinctly remembered that his tone had been remarkably lacking in that deferential courtesy which the good-looking members of her sex had a right to expect. As he came close she prepared to smile, holding the accompanying dimples in readiness as a reply to the opening words of the apology he was evidently about to utter. She noted also that he was quite nicelooking and had good eyes; he also gave her a vague idea that she had seen him before. At a distance of a few feet he smiled (quite nicely); then he bent down and touched Peter's near fore fetlock. The horse obediently flexed his knee, and the brown man looked closely at the heel. Betty leaned from the saddle and looked also, suddenly anxious. Is he cut ? she asked.

"No. Hair's off, that's all. He did it over the double. I thought he would at that pace. Skin's not broken." He let the hoof down and straightVOL. COXI.-NO. MOCLXXV.

ened up, smiling at her. Peter turned his head and nuzzled at his breast-pocket. A cold feeling suddenly passed across Betty's waist-belt, and she decided to forgo any questions of apology or rudeness. This man seemed suspiciously familiar with her mount. She released the smile.

You've ruined a nice new martingale, you know - Sir James, too."

"Well, he told you to put it on. It's his fault, he tells me

not yours. It'll stitch up anyway; you'll get second or third, I think. Even without that refusal they'd have taken off a pip for the pace you went-general form, you know. This horse'll never keep calm for that sort of jumping. He's too keen.”

Well, I wish you'd been riding him. You could have done better."

"No, I couldn't. You've got good hands. You should shorten your stirrup-leathers a little, though-they're so long that your toes stick out a bit. He looked her over appraisingly from her fawn grey hat to her speckless polo boots. She saw approval and a hint even of admiration in his blue eyes.

66

Hot, isn't it?" he said. "Here, this is a new hanky; have a mop down before you go into the ring." The band struck up again and he looked round. There go the numbers. You're third-good on you! Go on, Carson, lead him in." He walked away towards the enclosure.

0 2

Betty's impression of the winner's parade was not clear. Somebody stuck a rosette on Peter's headstall and shook hands with her. She smiled gratefully at everybody, and sat up very straight and patted Peter; but all the while her thoughts were on Dicky. She had never conceived the possibility of there being anybody in existence who could be so abrupt, tactless, self-centred, and rude in a short interview. As she dismounted by the horse lines and left the horse to Carson, her brain was concentrating on the question of how this young man could be made to feel the enormity of his sins.

She found Dicky by the car; he was sitting on the running-board talking to Anne Glaisher, and explaining his dramatic arrival at the Horse Show. He had apparently decided to turn up earlier, but had missed his train through having called at the Admiralty, where he was detained to give some information to Intelligence on some navigational problem in the Baltic. He had found that his father's touring car had been stored at Westleigh, and had at once seized it from the garage and driven the five miles up to the Showground in ten minutes. Apparently he had missed lunch, and was now having tea off beer and sausage rolls from the lunch-basket. He jumped up as Betty approached, and made room for her on the runningboard. She paid no attention

to this hint, beyond remarking that she wanted to look at the cart-horse parade. This was not strictly true, but it sufficed as an excuse for climbing into the chauffeur's seat next to Sir James. That genial old gentleman patted her shoulder and beamed at her.

"Perfectly splendid, young woman. You were the success of the Show. Young Dick's been dressing me down about that martingale, you know, but I still think I was doing it for the best."

"Of course you were. I'm sure it wasn't that that worried Peter. It was the crowd and the excitement really. I won't have you blamed for it."

"Thank you, my dear. That's good of you. Ha! They've finished this entry. We'll have to be seeing about backing the car out, I think. How's Dicky going back ? Oh yes-he's got the open car, of

course.'

He stepped down and called to the chauffeur, and Anne rose and began packing the débris of tea. Elsa, Betty's elder sister, assisted in the general turmoil. Dicky looked round for Betty, and saw her in conversation with a man he did not know, a good-looking but rather stagey personality in beautiful clothes. Dicky decided at once that this man was rather soft about the solar plexus, would not be able to stand a short punch, had too prominent eyes, and was no fit friend for a young girl.