roaring like a bull: "This way for the fourteen stone 'acks! Come on,
you twelve 'and ponies!" and by degrees various classes got judged,
and dispersed grumbling. Then the bulls filed out with their grievances
still unsettled, the lady riders were persuaded to withdraw,
and the clerk of the ring sent a sonorous bellow across the ground:
"Where's the jumpin' judges?"

From the official stand came a brisk, dark-faced, wiry little man.
He had been a steeplechase rider and a trainer in his time.
Long experience of that tricky animal, the horse, had made him reserved
and slow to express an opinion. He mounted the table,
and produced a note-book. From the bar of the booth came a large, hairy,
red-faced man, whose face showed fatuous self-complacency.
He was a noted show-judge because he refused, on principle,
to listen to others' opinions; or in those rare cases when he did,
only to eject a scornful contradiction. The third judge was
a local squatter, who was overwhelmed with a sense of his own importance.

They seated themselves on a raised platform in the centre of the ring,
and held consultation. The small dark man produced his note-book.

"I always keep a scale of points," he said. "Give 'em so many points
for each fence. Then give 'em so many for make, shape, and quality,
and so many for the way they jump."

The fat man looked infinite contempt. "I never want any scale of points,"
he said. "One look at the 'orses is enough for me. A man that judges
by points ain't a judge at all, I reckon. What do you think?" he went on,
turning to the squatter. "Do you go by points?"