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his recovery tipped me half-way back again and he
cantered on across the next field with me clinging
round his neck. At one moment I was almost in front
of his chest. I said to myself, "I won't fall off", as I
gradually worked my way back into the saddle. My
horse was honestly following Mikado, and my fate
depended on whether I could get into the saddle
before we arrived at the next fence. This I just suc-
ceeded in doing, and we got over somehow. I then
regained my stirrups and set off in urgent pursuit.

After that really remarkable recovery of mine, life
became lyrical, beatified, ecstatic, or anything else
you care to call it. To put it tersely, I just galloped
past Brownrigg, sailed over the last two fences, and
won by ten lengths* Stephen came in a bad third.
I also remember seeing Roger Pomfret ride up to
Jaggett in the paddock and inform him in a most
aggressive voice that he'd got to "something well
pay up and look pleasant".

Needless to say that Dixon's was the first face I was
aware of; his eager look and the way he said, "Well
done", were beyond all doubt the quintessence of
what my victory meant to me. All else was irrelevant
at that moment, even Stephen's unselfish exultation
and Mr. Gaffikin's loquacious enthusiasm. As for
Cockbird, no words could ever express what we felt
about him. He had become the equine equivalent
of Divinity.

Excited as I was, an inward voice cautioned me to
control my volubility. So when I had weighed in
and returned with my saddle to find a cluster of
knowing ones casting an eye over the winner, I just