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