reckless dash, and "curs" became reassured by his unfaltering nerve.

No doubt timid horsemen were glad to keep out of his way, but it is only fair to state that Major Owen rode with just the same cheerful confidence when he found himself pitted against spirits as oblivious of peril as himself. His animation and the evident enjoyment he took in race-riding found him a number of supporters, who backed him persistently, no matter what mount he rode. And this notoriety which he had gained indirectly gave rise to little outbursts of dissatisfaction. Backers, who betted on his mounts without previously ascertaining whether they were good, bad, or indifferent, grumbled when they lost their money. In a few cases they aired their real or imaginary grievances offensively freely. As a disagreeable instance. of this, may be mentioned a scene at Sandown, in which Tenby, ridden by Major Owen, started first favourite, but did not fulfil expectations. Directly after clearing the fence, close to the railway, Tenby pecked badly just as he landed. and Major Owen came off. Prince Edward, a smart chaser, who had II lbs. the best of the weight, finished alone. The supporters of Tenby became exceedingly angry with the crack gentleman-jockey. But even under such trying circumstances Major Owen's presence of mind did not desert him. Remounting and scornfully raising his whip, he threatened to thrash any of the crowd who offered to molest him. A little later "Roddy' rode Tenby in a trial for the National, and the

horse again pecked. Thereupon he decided to try his luck on Father O'Flynn, a rank outsider and a most difficult mount, on whom he easily won the big event; he seemed to be the only jockey who could induce this speedy son of Retreat to gallop up to his best form.

Whatever Major Owen did he did quickly, and never seemed to get in the least flurried. Indeed, he may be said to have gracefully travelled through life with a first-class ticket. Riding the winner, dining at the best clubs, dancing at balls, drilling with his regiment, or camping out in the desert, his career was dazzling and varied, but never prosaic.

Although the scion of a good family, Major Owen occupied the unremunerative position of a younger son; all the same he managed to extract a maximum enjoyment out of the means at his command. There were many possibilities for so attractive a man. He might retire to the colonies, win a fortune on the Turf, turn gentleman-trainer, or marry an heiress. However, he did none of these. In a sense, "Roddy Owen " lived a very complete life, for he achieved his ambition when he won the Grand National. He enjoyed excellent health and spirits before he fell a victim to cholera in his prime. So long as men of his stamp hold commissions in our army, England will continue to be a great and conquering nation. Major Owen's pleasant, smiling face and manly accomplishments will be remembered for life by those who were fortunate enough to know him. Nor will they be easily forgotten by those who attended the

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best steeplechase meetings at that time, because his death made a void, which hitherto no other racing man has filled. Although many good amateurs are to be seen constantly wearing colours, Roddy's" horsemanship was a combination which it is indeed rare to meet with. That he would have won distinction as a commanding officer, if his life had been spared, there seems no reason to doubt.

PART IV

CHAPTER X

PROPERTY OF THE NEW YORK WORLD LIBRARY.

COLONIAL RACE-COURSES

WHOEVER Sings the praises of our principal metropolitan meetings may be disinclined to believe that those popular resorts, in some respects, compare unfavourably with the best racing centres in New Zealand, Victoria, or New South Wales, more especially with the Flemington course near Sydney.

But as Australasia is a stronghold of patriotism in the King's dominions across the sea, it is manifestly absurd for us to feel any tinge of jealousy, because just a few colonial courses are better managed than our own. Let us rather welcome any innovation, no matter where it comes from, which seems likely to benefit the English racing community. At the same time, I willingly admit that the Mother Turf is apt to feel humiliated when she receives a lesson in the sport of kings from one of her many precocious offspring.

However, if we pause to consider what generosity is implied in the term "a good, all-round sportsman," then we are more disposed to admit the possibility of our antipodean cousins being as

clever at arranging successful race-meetings as they have proved themselves in regard to winning cricket matches on a first-rate pitch.

The Australians attribute to our insular prejudices the suspicion with which we regard their pet "starting machine." Of course the real reason we have not been very enthusiastic about it is, or should be, very apparent. English racehorses have been trained to start when a flag drops, and do not yet understand the meaning of a net unexpectedly popping above their heads at the last

moment.

As regards racehorses carrying registered numbers on their saddle-cloths, and having a similar number on their stalls-and by so doing enabling backers to identify them-why, surely, this is an unquestionable improvement upon our present English system?

In 1892, when Sir Hugo won the Derby, I had to depend upon the truthfulness of a lad who led the horse about in the saddling-paddock just before the race. Either that boy had an imagination, or else he deliberately told a barefaced falsehood, for, with great solemnity, he declared his charge to be El Diablo. Consequently I lost a few sovereigns over that classic event, whereas, had Sir Hugo worn a number on his saddlecloth, his admirer would not have been at the mercy of a stableman, and would, moreover, have won £250.

The picturesque Flemington race-course has often been compared to a scenic horseshoe; commodious private and public stands are erected on