eleven o'clock
It has possibly been suspected that Mr. Bernard Shute was a sailor , had been a sailor rather , until within the last year , when he had tumbled into a fortune and a property , and out of the navy , in the shortest time on record . His enthusiasm for horses had been nourished by the hirelings of Malta , and other resorts of her Majesty 's ships , and his knowledge of them was , so far , bounded by the fact that it was more usual to come off over their heads than their tails . For the rest , he was a clean-shaved and personable youth , with a laugh which I may , without offensive intention , define as possessing a what-cheeriness special to his profession , and a habit , engendered no doubt by long sojourns at the Antipodes , of getting his clothes in large hideous consignments from a naval outfitter . It was eleven o'clock , and the fair was in full swing . Its vortex was in the centre of the field below us , where a low bank of sods and earth had been erected as a trial jump , with a yelling crowd of men and boys at either end , acting instead of the usual wings to prevent a swerve . Strings of reluctant horses were scourged over the bank by dozens of willing hands , while exhortation , cheers , and criticism were freely showered upon each performance . `` Give the knees to the saddle , boy , and leave the heels slack . ''