Then it was that the HS sorrel went mad and pitched as he had never, even when building his record, pitched before.  Then it was that Andy, his own temper a bit roughened by the murderous brute, rode as he had not ridden for many a day; down in the saddle, his quirt keeping time with the jumps.  He was just settling himself to “drag it out of him proper,” when one of the judges, on horseback in the field, threw up his hand.

“Get off!” he shouted, galloping closer.  “That horse’s got to be rode again to-day.  You’ve done enough this time.”

So Andy, watching his chance, jumped off when the sorrel stopped for a few seconds of breath, and left him unconquered and more murderous than ever.  A man with a megaphone was announcing that the contest was yet undecided, and that Green and Roberts would ride again later in the afternoon.

Andy passed the Happy Family head in air, stopped a minute to exchange facetious threats with Billy Roberts, and went with Irish to roost upon the fence near the judge’s stand to watch the races.  The Happy Family kept sedulously away from the two and tried to grow interested in other things until the final test.

It came, when Billy Roberts, again first, mounted the HS sorrel, still in murderous mood and but little the worse for his previous battle.  What he had done with Andy he repeated, and added much venom to the repetition.  Again he threw himself backward, which Billy expected and so got clear and remounted as he scrambled up.  After that, the sorrel simply pitched so hard and so fast that he loosened Billy a bit; not much, but enough to “show daylight” between rider and saddle for two or three high, crooked jumps.  One stirrup he lost, rode a jump without it and by good luck regained it as it flew against his foot.  It was great riding, and a gratifying roar of applause swept out to him when it was over.

Andy, saddling the blue roan, drew a long breath.  This one ride would tell the tale, and he was human enough to feel a nervous strain such as had not before assailed him.  It was so close, now! and it might soon be so far.  A bit of bad luck such as may come to any man, however great his skill, and the belt would go to Billy.  But not for long could doubt or questioning hold Andy Green.  He led the Weaver out himself, and instinctively he felt that the horse remembered him and would try all that was in him.  Also, he was somehow convinced that the blue roan held much in reserve, and that it would be a great fight between them for mastery.

When he gathered up the reins, the roan eyed him wickedly sidelong and tightened his muscles, as it were, for the struggle.  Andy turned the stirrup, put in his toe, and went up in a flash, warned by something in the blue roan’s watchful eye.  Like a flash the blue roan also went up—­but Andy had been a fraction of a second quicker.  There was a squeal that carried to the grand stand as the Weaver, wild-eyed and with red flaring nostrils, pounded