Time—About 3.30. Leaping Competition about to begin. The Competitors are ranged in a line at the upper end of the Hall while the attendants place the hedges in position. Amongst the Spectators in the Area are—a Saturnine Stableman from the country; a Cockney Groom; a Morbid Man; a Man who is apparently under the impression that he is the only person gifted with sight; a Critic who is extremely severe upon other people's seats; a Judge of Horseflesh; and Two Women who can't see as well as they could wish.

The Descriptive Man. They've got both the fences up now, d'ye see? There's the judges going to start the jumping; each rider's got a ticket with his number on his back. See? The first man's horse don't seem to care about jumping this afternoon—see how he's dancing about. Now he's going at it—there, he's cleared it! Now he'll have to jump the next one!

[Keeps up a running fire of these instructive and valuable observations throughout the proceedings.

The Judge of Horseflesh. Rare good shoulders that one has.

The Severe Critic (taking the remark to apply to the horse's rider). H'm, yes—rather—pity he sticks his elbows out quite so much, though.

[His Friend regards him in silent astonishment. Another Competitor clears a fence, but exhibits a considerable amount of daylight.

The Saturnine Stableman (encouragingly). You'll 'ev to set back a bit next journey, Guv'nor!

The Cockney Groom. 'Orses 'ud jump better if the fences was a bit 'igher.

The S. S. They'll be plenty 'oigh enough fur some on 'em.

The Severe Critic. Ugly seat that fellow has—all anyhow when the horse jumps.

Judge of Horseflesh. Has he? I didn't notice—I was looking at the horse. [Severe Critic feels snubbed.

The S. S. (soothingly, as the Competitor with the loose seat comes round again). That's not good, Guv'nor!

The Cockney Groom. 'Ere's a little bit o' fashion coming down next—why, there's quite a boy on his back.

The S. S. 'E won't be on 'im long if he don't look out. Cup an ball I call it!

The Morbid Man. I suppose there's always a accident o' some sort before they've finished.

First Woman. Oh, don't, for goodness' sake, talk like that—I'm sure I don't want to see nothing 'appen.

Second Woman. Well, you may make your mind easy—for you won't see nothing here; you would have it this was the best place to come to!

First Woman. I only said there was no sense in paying extra for the balcony, when you can go in the area for nothing.

Second Woman (snorting). Area, indeed! It might be a good deal airier than what it is, I'm sure—I shall melt if I stay here much longer.

The Morbid Man, There's one thing about being so close to the jump as this—if the 'orse jumps sideways—as 'osses will do every now and then—he'll be right in among us before we know where we are, and then there'll be a pretty how-de-do!

Second Woman (to her Friend). Oh, come away, do—it's bad enough to see nothing, let alone having a great 'orse coming down atop of us, and me coming out in my best bonnet, too—come away! [They leave.

The Descriptive Man. Now, they're going to make 'em do some in-and-out jumping, see? they're putting the fences close together—that'll puzzle some of them—ah, he's over both of 'em; very clean that one jumps! Over again! He's got to do it all twice, you see.

The Judge of Horseflesh. Temperate horse, that chestnut.

The Severe Critic. Is he, though?—but I suppose they have to be here, eh? Not allowed champagne or whiskey or anything before they go in—like they are on a race-course?

The J. of H. No, they insist on every horse taking the pledge before they'll enter him.

The Descriptive Man. Each of 'em's had a turn at the in-and-out jump now. What's coming next? Oh, the five-barred gate—they're going over that now, and the stone wall—see them putting the bricks on top? That's to raise it.

The Morbid Man. None of 'em been off yet; but (hopefully) there'll be a nasty fall or two over this business—there's been many a neck broke over a lower gate than that.

[A Competitor clears the gate easily, holding the reins casually in his right hand.

The J. of H. That man can ride.

The Severe Critic. Pretty well—not what I call business, though—going over a gate with one hand, like that.

The J. of H. Didn't know you were such an authority.

The S. C. (modestly). Oh, I can tell when a fellow has a good seat. I used to ride a good deal at one time. Don't get the chance much now—worse luck!

The J. of H. Well, I can give you a chance, as it happens. (Severe Critic accepts with enthusiasm, and the inward reflection that the chance is much less likely to come off than he is himself.) You wait till the show is over, and they let the horses in for exercise. I know a man who's got a cob here—regular little devil to go—bucks a bit at times—but you won't mind that. I'll take you round to the stall and get my friend to let you try him on the tan. How will that do you, eh?

The Severe Critic (almost speechless with gratitude). Oh—er—it will do me right enough—capital! That is—it would, if I hadn't an appointment, and had my riding things on, and wasn't feeling rather out of sorts, and hadn't promised to go home and take my wife in the Park, and it's her birthday, too, and, then, I've long made it a rule never to mount a strange horse, and—er—so you understand how it is don't you?

The J. of H. Quite, my dear fellow. (As, for that matter, he has done from the first.)

The Cockney Groom (alluding to a man who is riding at the gate). 'Ere's a rough 'un this bloke's on! (Horse rises at gate; his rider shouts "Hoo, over!" and the gate falls amidst general derision.) Over? Ah, I should just think it was over!

The Saturnine Stableman (as horseman passes). Yer needn't ha' "Hoo'd" for that much!

[The Small Boy, precariously perched on an immense animal, follows; his horse, becoming unmanageable, declines the gate, and leaps the hurdle at the side.

The S. S. Ah, you're a artful lad, you are—thought you'd take it where it was easiest, eh?—you'll 'ev to goo back and try agen you will.

Chorus of Sympathetic Bystanders. Take him at it again, boy; you're all right!... Hold him in tighter, my lad.... Let out your reins a bit! Lor, they didn't ought to let a boy like that ride.... He ain't no more 'old on that big 'orse than if he was a fly on him!... Keep his 'ed straighter next time.... Enough to try a boy's nerve! &c., &c.

[The Boy takes the horse back, and eventually clears the gate amidst immense and well-deserved applause.

The Morbid Man (disappointed). Well, I fully expected to see 'im took off on a shutter.

The Descriptive Man. It's the water-jump next—see; that's it in the middle; there's the water, underneath the hedge; they'll have to clear the 'ole of that—or else fall in and get a wetting. They've taken all the horses round to the other entrance—they'll come in from that side directly.

[One of the Judges holds up his stick as a signal; wild shouts of "Hoy-hoy! Whorr-oosh!" from within, as a Competitor dashes out and clears hedge and ditch by a foot or two. Deafening applause. A second horseman rides at it, and lands—if the word is allowable—neatly in the water. Roars of laughter as he scrambles out.

The Morbid Man. Call that a brook! It ain't a couple of inches deep—it's more mud than water! No fear (he means "no hope") of any on 'em getting a ducking over that!

[And so it turns out; the horses take the jump with more or less success, but without a single saddle being vacated. The proceedings terminate for the afternoon amidst demonstrations of hearty satisfaction from all but The Morbid Man, who had expected there would have been "more to see."