Twenty or thirty others are hustling themselves through the
water. The time for a judicious start on that side is already
gone. But others, a crowd of others, are facing the big ploughed
field immediately before them. That is the straightest riding,
and with them he goes. Why has the scent lain so hot over the up-
turned heavy ground? Why do they go so fast at this the very
first blush of the morning ? Fortune is always against him, and
the horse is pulling him through the mud as though the brute
meant to drag his arm out of the socket. At the first fence, as
he is steadying himself, a butcher passes him roughly in the jump
and nearly takes away the side of his top boot. He is knocked
half out of his saddle, and in that condition scrambles through.
When he has regained his equilibrium he sees the happy butcher
going into the field beyond. He means to curse the butcher when
he catches him, but the butcher is safe. A field and a half
before him he still sees the tail hounds, and renews his effort.
He has meant to like it to-day, and he will. So he rides at the
next fence boldly, where the butcher has left his mark, and does
it pretty well, with a slight struggle. Why is it that he can
never get over a ditch without some struggle in his saddle, some
scramble with his horse? Why does he curse the poor animal so
constantly, unless it be that he cannot catch the butcher? Now
he rushes at a gate which others have opened for him, but rushes
too late and catches his leg.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26