38 THE LIFE OF A SPORTSMAN 



the pace was awful. 'Sharper than common, this 

 morning,' cried George Germaine to me, and he seldom 

 sings out, as you know, on that score; 'how does the 

 young one like it 1 ' Indeed, he has been heard to say, 

 during the Bibury meeting, that a race-horse never yet 

 went fast enough to please him ; and that, if it would not 

 hurt him, he would like to be shot out of a cannon's 

 mouth. Albeit, there was no cause for complaint now ; 

 still my horse appeared to be going at his ease ; in short, 

 he delighted me. I said to myself, ' You are worth double 

 what I gave for you.' He jumped an ox-fence (Frank here 

 again looked surprised) the next but one after the bulfinch, 

 and then a stile, with an awkward foot bridge. A widish 

 brook he, of course, took in his stride for all young ones 

 will leap brooks, if the riders will only let them go their 

 own pace at them ; so I did not think much of that ; but 

 I could not help saying to myself, for there was no 

 one very near to have heard me, ' I have got a trump, I 

 believe ; the blood of Herod will tell.' Still he kept 

 shaking his head in an extraordinary manner ; I had 

 never seen him do so before. If I had had my whip in 

 my hand, I should have given him a ' nobber ; ' for, you 

 know, it's awkward work going very fast at high and 

 strong timber post and rail, or what not with a blind 

 ditch on the rising side, and your horse shaking his head 

 like a terrier killing a rat. I could not do this, however ; 

 for I had lost my whip, and part of my breeches as well, 

 at that infernal bulfinch. I know not how it happened, 

 but that day I was not in leathers ; for John Hawkes and 

 myself always ride in leathers, though people say ' it looks 

 slow.' I suppose Pritchard thinks corduroys less trouble ; 

 for he often says, when he wakes me, ' Likely to be wet, 

 sir ; better not wear leathers to-day.' (The washerwoman 

 polishes the corduroys, and he cleans the leathers.) To 

 proceed with my story. When we checked for a minute 

 or two under Carlton Clumps, I found what it was that 

 made the young one shake his head. He had got a thorn 

 in one cheek, out of that infernal bulfinch, and the blood 

 was streaming down the other, from a rip from one of the 

 growers in it. I got the thorn out the best way I could ; 

 but my horse was evidently in much pain. What was to 

 be done ? I could have cried ; for I love horses better 

 than most things, and abhor cruelty in any shape. I 

 condemned myself ; I wished I was anywhere but where I 



