Tuesday, Febi:'Uat^y 13th, 1894. 21 



I am too wet to remain for the end of this. 

 Crestfallen and disappointed I mount and depart. 

 There will be no mention of me in the report of 

 this day's proceedings. These men, and probably 

 all that were out — since the run was a slow one, and 

 allowed them time to remark who was there — know 

 that I am a defaulter. 



I turn and go home very worn and hungry. Put 

 my hand into pocket for my food. What can this 

 be so soft and pulpy ? Draw out a giant horseball, 

 or something very black and nasty. It is my break- 

 fast, saturated with filthy bog water. Try to eat it, 

 and to imagine that the black liquid is walnut pickle. 

 Imagination objects to the smell of the thing. My 

 effort, however, is not to go unrecorded, for just as I 

 am about to try once more, there issues from the 

 yard of a roadside inn a bevy of young ladies with 

 their attendant esquires. They had turned home- 

 ward at the end of the first run, and had put in here to 

 give their horses gruel. They appear to be in high 

 spirits. "What have you got there?" says one. " It 

 looks very nice I " says another. " Won't you give me 

 a bit ? " pleads a third. Whilst a satirical male of 

 the party tells them not to touch it, as it is a black 

 pudding and made of pig's blood, a thing unlawful 

 to eat. " He does not care for fox's blood, or he 

 would have come on with us on the spec," is the 

 taunt of a mere schoolboy, and capped by a heavy 



