“He’s upside down in the Tuning Fork trench system at the present moment,” said I.  “The Babe and the grooms are digging him out.  If you hurry up you’ll win yet.”

We roused out the guard, bore the reluctant Ferdinand back to the course and by eleven o’clock had restarted him.  At 11.10 William returned to report that the digging party had salved the Cazenove pair and got them going again.

“Too late,” said I; “Albert Edward must have won in a walk by now.  He left here at...”

The resounding clatter of falling sheet-iron cut short my words.  Ferdinand had, it appeared, returned to stables once more.

Suddenly something hurtled out of the gloom and crashed into us.  It was the Babe.

“What’s the matter now?  Where are you going?” we asked.

“Wire-cutters, quick!” he gasped and hurtled onwards towards the saddle-room.

“Hello there!” came the hail of MacTavish from up the course.  “I s-say, what about this blessed race?  I’m f-f-rozen s-s-tiff out here.  I’m about f-f-fed up, I t-tell you.”

William groaned.  “As if we all weren’t!” he protested.  “If all the Mess Funds for the next three weeks weren’t involved I’d make the silly fools chuck it.  Here, you, run and tell Albert Edward to get a move on.”

I found Ferdinand rapidly levelling the remainder of the standings, playing his jockey at the end of his reins as a fisherman plays a salmon.

“This cursed donkey won’t steer at all,” Albert Edward growled.  “Sideslips all over the place like a wet tyre.  Has Cazenove won yet?”

“Not yet,” said I.  “He’s wound up in the Switch Line wire entanglements now.  The Babe and the wrecking gang are busy chopping him out.  There’s still time.”

“Then drag Isabella out in front of this brute,” said he.  “Quick, man, quick!”

At 11.43, by means of a brimming nose-bag, I had enticed Isabella forth, and the procession started in the following order:  First, myself, dragging Isabella and dangling the bait.  Secondly, Isabella.  Thirdly, the racers, Ferdinand and Albert Edward, the latter belting Isabella with a surcingle whenever she faltered.  Lastly, the line-guard, speeding Ferdinand with a doubled stirrup-leather.  We toiled down the mud. track at an average velocity of .25 m.p.h., halting occasionally for Isabella to feed and the line-guard to rest his arm.  I have seen faster things in my day.

Then, just as we were arriving at our journey’s end we collided with another procession.  It was the wrecking gang, laden with the implements of their trade (shovels, picks, wire-cutters, ropes, planks, waggon-jacks, etc.), and escorting in their midst Mr. Cazenove and his battered racehorse.  Both competitors immediately claimed the victory:—­

“Beaten you this time, Albert Edward, old man."...  “On the contrary, Charles, old chap, I won hands down."...  “But, my good fellow, I’ve been here for hours."...  “My dear old thing, I’ve been here all night!"...  “Do be reasonable."...  “Don’t be absurd.”