128 AN ANGLER AT LARGE 



together with a huge sum in bets, whereby he, 

 the Squire, was able to marry and reform and save 

 a great name from dishonour and the timber from 

 the Jews. Never again has he, the Squire, run 

 a horse. The stable was sold, but the Druid 

 remained. Him the Squire would not let go. 

 No, by Gad ! He has earned an easy old age, 

 the Druid has, and the Squire is seeing that he 

 gets it. Yes, by Gad ! A bulging grandchild 

 is placed on the back of the old horse. He 

 lumbers on three legs round the paddock and 

 the book closes. 



Yes, the horses of fiction live like Jack, but 

 Jack is an ass of fact, and no ass, even of fiction, 

 has ever before had so ideal an existence. A 

 champion Pekingese could hardly fare better. 

 The meadow in which he passes his days is full 

 of long, sweet grasses ; it is admirably shaded 

 by elms. The sun shall not smite him by day 

 unless it is his pleasure. The high road runs hard 

 by. People walk there constantly, and they all 

 pass the time of day with Jack. Most of them 

 he ignores, but with a few, whom he favours 

 because they bring gifts, he engages in brief 

 conversation. The gifts displayed, accepted, and 

 swallowed, he drifts away, which is his method 

 of suggesting departure to his visitors. And let 

 them go or stay, he gives them no more of his 



