Cleopatra 



Rawdon smiled at me fondly. 



"Good old sport," he said enthusiastically, 

 slapping me on the back. "Fancy your asking 

 for stiff country, after all these years out of the 

 saddle. Just like you were in the old days; 

 couldn't get 'em big enough, eh ! Stiff country — 

 well, I guess — there's nothing stiffer this side of 

 Ireland. Why, there was an Englishman out with 

 the pack last week that said he had never seen its 

 equal, that every fence looked as if it had been 

 built by a carpenter, and we were down near 

 Bremen then. To-morrow we are going to hunt 

 the Midvale country." I didn't have to ask Raw- 

 don what he meant by that. That fanatical fire, 

 I knew so well of years ago, was burning in his 

 eyes, and I had inside information, so to speak, 

 that in the Midvale country a nice, well-meaning, 

 four-foot post and rail was as a drop of water in 

 the desert. Another quarter of a mile and we 

 turned in at a gate and Rawdon sent the Cricket 

 at a gallop up the driveway to the stable where two 

 grooms with lanterns touched their forelocks in 

 respectful silence and fell upon the Cricket and 

 the break-cart with feverish haste. 



In the end stall, Cleopatra, rudely awakened, 



put her head up over the side of the stall, rolled a 



red eye at me wildly, and bit at the horse next her, 



who returned the compliment gallantly. Rawdon 



33 



