_Dick Gatling_ (_in front, as his Sheep halts to crop the turf in
a leisurely manner_). We've not pulled up--only lying-to to take in
supplies. We're going ahead directly. There, what did I tell you! Now
she's tacking!

_The Curate_ (_in the rear_). Poo' little Jacko, then--there, there,
quietly now! Miss STELLA, what does it mean when it gibbers like that?
(_Sotto voce._) I wonder, if I let go the chain--

_Mr. Duff_ (_hauling his Goose towards Miss CHAFFERS_). It's no
use--_I_ can't keep this beast from bolting off the course!

_Miss C._ Do keep it away from my Puppy, at all events. I _know_ it
will peck him, and he's perfectly happy licking my shoe--he's found
out there's sugar-candy in the varnish.

_Mr. Duff_ (_solemnly_). Yes, but I _say_, you know--that's all very
well, but it's not making him _race_, is it? Now I _am_ getting some
running out of my Goose.

_Miss C._ Rather in-and-out-running, isn't it? (_Cries of distress
from the rear._) But what is the matter now? That poor dear Curate
again!

_The Curate_ (_in agony_). Here, I say, somebody! _do_ help me! Miss
STELLA, do speak to your monkey, please! It's jumped on my back, and
it's pulling my hair--'ow!

[_Most of the Competitors abandon their animals and rush to
the rescue._