The Bishop of Barchester 



not like the average army mule that pops over a 

 fence as a cow breaks out of a pasture — but flies 

 'em like any first-clarss 'orse which 'as done 'is 

 mile at Newmarket. One mornin', the day before 

 the race, I'm schoolin' 'im over some 'urdles, when 

 'e gives me a narsty spill — (I knows, o' course, 'e 

 done it on purpose from the way 'e stopped and 

 looked) — then 'e grabs me by the seat of the 

 breeches, shakes me like a dog would, and brays 

 'til I nearly goes mad. 'E knows full well I 

 won't let the boy club 'im, for fear o' 'urtin' our 

 chawnces. Oh, the Bishop, 'e 'ad a keen sense o' 

 humor, too, 'e 'ad, but 'e knows just 'ow far 'e can 

 go, and 'e plays no games on the capt'in, but acts 

 like Mary's lamb. To see 'im nosin' the capt'in's 

 pockets for sugar, or beggin' a apple, perhaps, and 

 seemin' that righteously good, used to make me 

 sick to my stummick arfter 'e'd treated me so. 

 But I'm gettin' behind in my story and that's 

 what you're waitin' to 'ear. 



**It's a fair, bright day and the paddock and 

 grand stand is crowded. There's a lot o' good 

 pony races, too, just to fill out the card, but o' 

 course everyone's on hedge for the big match 

 between the Hon. Percy Clinton o' 'is Majesty's 

 Eightieth 'Orse, and Capt'in Cyril Ponsonby, V. 

 C, o' 'is Majesty's Own Black Watch. And it's 

 not a bad appearance the people made that day 

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