A drag with four bays--with fine hunting points
about them--had dashed up, late of course; the Seraph had swung himself
from the roller-bolt into the saddle of his hack (one of these few rare
hacks that are perfect, and combine every excellence of pace, bone, and
action, under their modest appellative), and had cantered off to join
the Stewards; while Cecil had gone up to a group of ladies in the Grand
Stand, as if he had no more to do with the morning's business than they.
Right in front of that Stand was an artificial bullfinch that promised
to treat most of the field to a "purler," a deep ditch dug and filled
with water, with two towering blackthorn fences on either side of it,
as awkward a leap as the most cramped country ever showed; some were
complaining of it; it was too severe, it was unfair, it would break the
back of very horse sent at it. The other Stewards were not unwilling to
have it tamed down a little, but he Seraph, generally the easiest of all
sweet-tempered creatures, refused resolutely to let it be touched.
"Look here," said he confidentially, as he wheeled his hack round to the
Stand and beckoned Cecil down, "look here, Beauty; they're wanting
to alter that teaser, make it less awkward, you know; but I wouldn't
because I thought it would look as if I lessened it for you, you know.
Still it is a cracker and no mistake; Brixworth itself is nothing to it,
and if you'd like it toned down I'll let them do it--"
"My dear Seraph, not for worlds! You were quite right not to have a
thorn taken down.
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