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. Mad with pain, he nearly gives it up, but the spark
of pluck is still there, and with throbbing knee he perseveres. How he
hates it! It is all detestable now. He cannot hold his horse because of
his gloves, and he cannot get them off. The sympathetic beast knows
that his master is unhappy, and makes himself unhappy and troublesome in
consequence. Our friend is still going, riding wildly, but still keeping
a grain of caution for his fences. He has not been down yet, but has
barely saved himself more than once. The ploughs are very deep, and his
horse, though still boring at him, pants heavily. Oh, that there might
come a check, or that the brute of a fox might happily go to ground! But
no! The ruck of the hunt is far away from him in front, and the game
is running steadily straight for some well known though still distant
protection. But the man who doesn't like it still sees a red coat before
him, and perseveres in chasing the wearer of it. The solitary red coat
becomes distant, and still more distant from him, but he goes on while
he can yet keep the line in which that red coat has ridden. He must
hurry himself, however, or he will be lost to humanity, and will be
alone. He must hurry himself, but his horse now desires to hurry no
more. So he puts his spurs to the brute savagely, and then at some
little fence, some ignoble ditch, they come down together in the mud,
and the question of any further effort is saved for the rider. When he
arises the red coat is out of sight, and his own horse is half across
the