"Now," said the fat man, "that's a 'unter, that is. What I say is,
when you come to judge at a show, pick out the 'orse you'd soonest be on
if Ned Kelly was after you, and there you have the best 'unter."

The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book,
while the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. "I like to see
a bit of pace myself," he ventured.

The fat man sat on him heavily. "You don't call that pace,
do you?" he said. "He was going dead slow."

Various other competitors did their turn round the ring,
some propping and bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing
at their fences; not one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves
into difficulties by changing feet or misjudging the distance,
and were loudly applauded by the crowd for "cleverness"
in getting themselves out of the difficulties they had themselves created.

A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few,
and the task of deciding was entered on.

"I have kept a record," said the little man, "of how they jumped
each fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make
and shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that
Homeward Bound is the best, with Gaslight second."

"Homeward Bound!" said the fat man. "Why, the pace he went wouldn't head
a duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets
of stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at 'em."