“Sir,” said my uncle, raising his hat in his most impressive manner, “I am infinitely obliged to you.  With the referee’s permission, there is nothing for it but to shift the stakes.”

In an instant a scene of the wildest animation had set in.  Tom Owen and his assistant, Fogo, with the help of the ring-keepers, plucked up the stakes and ropes, and carried them off across country.  Crab Wilson was enveloped in great coats, and borne away in the barouche, whilst Champion Harrison took Mr. Craven’s place in our curricle.  Then, off the huge crowd started, horsemen, vehicles, and pedestrians, rolling slowly over the broad face of the moorland.  The carriages rocked and pitched like boats in a seaway, as they lumbered along, fifty abreast, scrambling and lurching over everything which came in their way.  Sometimes, with a snap and a thud, one axle would come to the ground, whilst a wheel reeled off amidst the tussocks of heather, and roars of delight greeted the owners as they looked ruefully at the ruin.  Then as the gorse clumps grew thinner, and the sward more level, those on foot began to run, the riders struck in their spurs, the drivers cracked their whips, and away they all streamed in the maddest, wildest cross-country steeplechase, the yellow barouche and the crimson curricle, which held the two champions, leading the van.

“What do you think of your chances, Harrison?” I heard my uncle ask, as the two mares picked their way over the broken ground.

“It’s my last fight, Sir Charles,” said the smith.  “You heard the missus say that if she let me off this time I was never to ask again.  I must try and make it a good one.”

“But your training?”

“I’m always in training, sir.  I work hard from morning to night, and I drink little else than water.  I don’t think that Captain Barclay can do much better with all his rules.”

“He’s rather long in the reach for you.”

“I’ve fought and beat them that were longer.  If it comes to a rally I should hold my own, and I should have the better of him at a throw.”

“It’s a match of youth against experience.  Well, I would not hedge a guinea of my money.  But, unless he was acting under force, I cannot forgive young Jim for having deserted me.”

“He was acting under force, Sir Charles.”

“You have seen him, then?”

“No, master, I have not seen him.”

“You know where he is?”

“Well, it is not for me to say one way or the other.  I can only tell you that he could not help himself.  But here’s the beak a-comin’ for us again.”

The ominous figure galloped up once more alongside of our curricle, but this time his mission was a more amiable one.

“My jurisdiction ends at that ditch, sir,” said he.  “I should fancy that you could hardly wish a better place for a mill than the sloping field beyond.  I am quite sure that no one will interfere with you there.”