a man. "I'm off to the Isle of Wight," says Numps: "Then
you're going to Ryde at last," quoth I, "notwithstanding your hostility
to horse-flesh." "Wrong!" replies he, "I'm going to Cowes." "Then
you're merely a mills-and-water traveller, Numps!" The ninny! he does
not know the delight of a canter in the green fields--except, indeed, the
said canter be of the genus-homo, and a field preacher!

My friend Rory's the boy for a horse; he and his bit o' blood are
notorious at all the meetings. In fact I never saw him out of the
saddle: he is a perfect living specimen of the fabled Centaur--full of
anecdotes of fox-chases, and steeple-chases; he amuses me exceedingly. I
last encountered him in a green lane near Hornsey, mounted on a roadster
--his "bit o' blood" had been sent forward, and he was leisurely making
his way to the appointed spot.

"I was in Buckinghamshire last week," said he; "a fine turn out--such a
field! I got an infernal topper tho'--smashed my best tile; tell you how
it was. There was a high paling--put Spitfire to it, and she took it in
fine style; but, as luck would have it, the gnarled arm of an old tree
came whop against my head, and bonneted me completely! Thought I was
brained--but we did it cleverly however--although, if ever I made a leap
in the dark, that was one. I was at fault for a minute--but Spitfire was
all alive, and had it all her own way: with some difficulty I got my nob
out of the beaver-trap, and was in at the death!"

I laughed heartily at his awkward dilemma, and wishing him plenty of
sport, we parted.

Poor Rory! he has suffered many a blow and many a fall in his time; but
he is still indefatigable in the pursuit of his favourite pastime--so
true is it--that

"The pleasure we delight in physic's pain;"

his days pass lightly, and all his years are leap years!

He has lately inherited a considerable property, accumulated by a miserly
uncle, and has most appropriately purchased an estate in one of the
Ridings of Yorkshire!

With all his love for field-sports, however, he is no better "the
better," says he, "is often the worse; and I've no notion of losing my
acres in gambling; besides, my chief aim being to be considered a good
horseman, I should be a consummate fool, if, by my own folly, I lost my
seat!"

A RIGMAROLE--PART III.

"Oderunt hilarem tristes."

The sad only hate a joke. Now, my friend Rory is in no sense a sad
fellow, and he loves a joke