I found Ferdinand rapidly levelling the remainder of the standings,
playing his jockey at the end of his reins as a fisherman plays a
salmon.

"This cursed donkey won't steer at all," Albert Edward growled.
"Sideslips all over the place like a wet tyre. Has Cazenove won yet?"

"Not yet," said I. "He's wound up in the Switch Line wire
entanglements now. The Babe and the wrecking gang are busy chopping
him out. There's still time."

"Then drag Isabella out in front of this brute," said he. "Quick, man,
quick!"

At 11.43, by means of a brimming nose-bag, I had enticed Isabella
forth, and the procession started in the following order: First,
myself, dragging Isabella and dangling the bait. Secondly, Isabella.
Thirdly, the racers, Ferdinand and Albert Edward, the latter
belting Isabella with a surcingle whenever she faltered. Lastly, the
line-guard, speeding Ferdinand with a doubled stirrup-leather. We
toiled down the mud. track at an average velocity of .25 m.p.h.,
halting occasionally for Isabella to feed and the line-guard to rest
his arm. I have seen faster things in my day.

Then, just as we were arriving at our journey's end we collided
with another procession. It was the wrecking gang, laden with the
implements of their trade (shovels, picks, wire-cutters, ropes,
planks, waggon-jacks, etc.), and escorting in their midst Mr. Cazenove
and his battered racehorse. Both competitors immediately claimed the