They had arrived at the section in which figured “No. 548.  Miss F. Fitzroy’s ‘Gamble,’ grey mare; 4 years, by Grey Dawn,” and opposite them was stall No. 548.  In it stood the Connemara filly, or rather something that might have been her astral body.  A more spectral, deplorable object could hardly be imagined.  Her hind quarters had fallen in, her hips were standing out; her ribs were like the bars of a grate; her head, hung low before her, was turned so that one frightened eye scanned the passers-by, and she propped her fragile form against the partition of her stall, as though she were too weak to stand up.

To say that Fanny Fitz’s face fell is to put it mildly.  As she described it to Mrs. Spicer, it fell till it was about an inch wide and five miles long.  Captain Spicer was speechless.  Freddy alone was equal to demanding of Patsey Crimmeen what had happened to the mare.

“Begor, Masther Freddy, it’s a wonder she’s alive at all!” replied Patsey, who was now perceived to be looking but little better than the filly.  “She was middlin’ quiet in the thrain, though she went to lep out o’ the box with the first screech the engine give, but I quietened her some way, and it wasn’t till we got into the sthreets here that she went mad altogether.  Faith, I thought she was into the river with me three times!  ‘Twas hardly I got her down the quays; and the first o’ thim alecthric thrams she seen!  Look at me hands, sir!  She had me swingin’ on the rope the way ye’d swing a flail.  I tell you, Masther Freddy, them was the ecstasies!”

Patsey paused and gazed with a gloomy pride into the stricken faces of his audience.

“An’ as for her food,” he resumed, “she didn’t use a bit, hay, nor oats, nor bran, bad nor good, since she left Johnny Connolly’s.  No, nor drink.  The divil dang the bit she put in her mouth for two days, first and last.  Why wouldn’t she eat is it, miss?  From the fright sure!  She’ll do nothing, only standing that way, and bushtin’ out sweatin’, and watching out all the time the way I wouldn’t lave her.  I declare to God I’m heart-scalded with her!”

At this harrowing juncture came the order to No. 548 to go forth to Ring 3 to be judged, and further details were reserved.  But Fanny Fitz had heard enough.

“Captain Spicer,” she said, as the party paced in deepest depression towards Ring 3, “if I hadn’t on a new veil I should cry!”

“Well, I haven’t,” replied Captain Spicer; “shall I do it for you?  Upon my soul, I think the occasion demands it!”

“I just want to know one thing,” continued Miss Fitzroy.  “When does your brother-in-law arrive?”

“Not till to-night.”

“That’s the only nice thing I’ve heard to-day,” sighed Fanny Fitz.

The judging went no better for the grey filly than might have been expected, even though she cheered up a little in the ring, and found herself equal to an invalidish but well-aimed kick at a fellow-competitor.  She was ushered forth with the second batch of the rejected, her spirits sank to their former level, and Fanny’s accompanied them.