At that moment, of all the places in the world that I could think
of--and I could think of a great many because the events of my past
life were rapidly flashing past me--as is customary, I am told, in
other cases of grave peril, such as drowning--I say of all the
places in the world there were just two where I least desired to
be--one was up on top of that horse and the other was down under
him. But it seemed to be a choice of the two evils, and so I chose
the lesser and got under him. I did this by a simple expedient
that occurred to me at the moment. I fell off. I was tramped on
considerably, and the earth proved to be harder than it looked
when viewed from an approximate height of sixteen miles up, but I
lived and breathed--or at least I breathed after a time had
elapsed--and I was satisfied. And so, having gone through this
experience myself, I am in position to appreciate what any other
man of my general build is going through as I see him bobbing by--
the poor martyr, sacrificing himself as a burnt offering, or anyway
a blistered one--on the high altar of a Gothic ruin of a horse.
And, besides, I know that riding a horse doesn't reduce a fat man.
It merely reduces the horse.

So it goes--the fat man is always up against it. His figure is
half-masted in regretful memory of the proportions he had once,
and he is made to mourn. Most sports and many gainful pursuits are
closed against him. He cannot play lawn tennis, or, at least
according to my observation, he cannot play lawn tennis oftener
than once in two weeks. In between games he limps round, stiff as
a hat tree and sore as a mashed thumb. Time was when he might
mingle in the mystic mazes of the waltz, tripping the light
fantastic toe or stubbing it, as the case may be. But that was in
the days of the old-fashioned square dance, which was the fat man's