2 8o THE HUNTING FIELD 



at the stirrup, and the clean towel over the left 

 shoulder, held Lambkin for the great little man to 

 mount. 



Mount he did, but ere his right foot gained the 

 stirrup, Lambkin, with one of those tremendous 

 efforts, sent him flying several yards, pitching him head 

 foremost in the pit of old Marjory Daw, the Banbury 

 cake woman's, stomach, who, unfortunately for herself, 

 was passing by at the time. 



What a hubbub was there ! How the women 

 screamed ! how the men stared ! Gilpin's celebrated 

 ride to Edmonton did not create greater sensation on 

 that line of road than did Simon Strutt's summerset. 



It was an uncommonly clean thing. 



The most provoking part of a "kick off" is, that 

 nobody can help laughing — great as their anxiety 

 may be, still the laugh will out. That is very odd, 

 for people do not laugh at each other when they 

 tumble out hunting, and yet they generally fall much 

 softer and dirtier, and consequently with less chance 

 of being hurt than the victim of a deliberate kick off. 

 "More dirt the less hurt" is a sound hunting axiom. 

 In this case perhaps, there were more than the 

 usual provocatives of laughter. There was a little 

 bumptious, over-dressed, cock-sparrow looking thing, 

 pitching like a cannon ball into an old cake-woman's 

 bread-basket. Old Margery was floored — regularly 

 doubled up — her Banbury cakes were scattered all 

 over the road, while the concussion sent Strutt's head 

 right into his hat, knocking the crown clean out, and 

 leaving him with the rest of the hat over his face, 

 looking just as if he were going to have a game at 

 blind man's buff. 



Ye gods, what a rage he was in ! How he did 

 stamp, and splutter, and groan, and kick, and 

 swear he was finished ! The scene was ridiculous — 

 too ridiculous to pursue, so we will chop over to the 

 Captain and his doings. 



