Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking it has
come, if only it were possible!
But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man
who doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, Cannot
check his horse and simply ride back to the hunting stables. He
understands that were he to do that, he must throw up his cap at
once and resign. Nor can he trot easily along the roads with the
fat old country gentleman who is out on his rough cob, and who,
looking up to the wind and remembering the position of adjacent
coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction in which the
field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of his
penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark
of pluck about him, though unfortunately he has brought it to
bear in a wrong direction. The blood still runs at his heart, and
he resolves that he will ride, if only he could tell which way.
The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left
with a few companions; but our friend knows that the stout
gentleman has a little game of his own which will not be suitable
for one who intends to ride. Then the crowd in front has divided
itself. Those to the right rush down a hill towards a brook with
a ford. One or two, men whom he hates with an intensity of
envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to their work.
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