It was during one of his brief intervals of prosperity, at a meet
of the Ditchington Stag-hounds that I first met JOHNNIE. He was
beautifully got up. His top-hat shone scarcely less brilliantly than
his rosy cheeks, his collar was of the stiffest, his white tie was
folded and pinned with a beautiful accuracy, his black coat fitted
him like a glove, his leather-breeches were smooth and speckless, and
his champagne-coloured tops fitted his sturdy little legs as if they
had been born with him. He was mounted on an enormous chestnut-horse,
which Anak might have controlled, but which was far above the power
and weight of JOHNNIE, plucky and determined though he was. Shortly
after the beginning of the run, while the hounds were checked, I
noticed a strange, hatless, dishevelled figure, riding furiously round
and round a field. It was JOHNNIE, whose horse was bolting with him,
but who was just able to guide it sufficiently to keep it going in
a circle instead of taking him far over hill and dale. We managed to
stop him, and I shall never forget how he laughed at his own disasters
while he was picking up his crop and replacing his hat on his head.
Not long afterwards, I saw our little Mazeppa crashing, horse and all,
into the branches of a tree, but in spite of a black eye and a deep
cut on his cheek, he finished the run--fortunately for him a very
fast and long one--with imperturbable pluck and with no further
misadventure. "Nasty cut that," I said to him as we trained back
together, "you'd better get it properly looked to in town." "Pooh,"
said JOHNNIE, "it's a mere scratch. Did you see the brute take me into
the tree? By Jove, it must have been a comic sight!" and with that he
set off again on another burst of inextinguishable laughter.

About a week after this, the usual crash came. A relative of JOHNNIE
was in difficulties. JOHNNIE, with his wonted chivalry, came to his