At the Distance
Green, on Jezebel, g.c.b.m., 13-2, to himself, excitedly:—
Can she stay? Here's the chesnut behind us—he's trying to pass to the right;
And I daren't pull her out from the railings! Daren't touch her! Can only sit tight,
Hands low on the withers, head forward, and watch with the tail of my eye
The chesnut's blue brow-band creep nearer. By Jove! How the beggar can fly!
He's fit to the minute—I know it,—and Jezebel's not running steady.
(And I want that gold locket for Kitty) I fancy she tires already!
There's his fiddle-head up to our throat-latch. I can't suffer longerHere goes!
One welt for you, close to the girth, dear! You won't shut up now, I suppose?
You will! Swaine and Adeney, help me! Another—and over my boot
The chesnut's red nostrils are snorting. I wish I could shake off the brute!
If only old Brown wasn't on him—he gives me three good on the flat—
But I'm racing for love and for Kitty and don't care two pice for my tat.
If cat-gut and spurring can do it we're landed. Go on then you jade!
Go on, if I cut you to ribbons! No good! Her bolt's shot I'm afraid.
Where the deuce have we got to?I'm blinded and dusty and sweating and done,
With a mouth like the roof of a lime-kilnWho's shouting behind us? I've won!
'Queer—Green dying off at the finish—his chesnut's the best of the two—
'Suppose 'twas my riding that did it—I squeezed the last ounce from my screw.
