GLORIOUS GOODWOOD 11 



That being so, I was no longer timid about 

 sitting me down to rest, a relief which gave pause 

 to dwell on the flying about to which I alluded 

 just now. ''What a game it all is," says I to 

 myself, says I. ''This is Monday. Here am I, 

 up, up aloft — like all jolly sailor boys when stormy 

 winds do blow, do blow — on the South Downs. 

 On Sunday — which is, or was, yesterday — I was 

 being half-poisoned on the Thames through the 

 water companies sneaking too much of the element, 

 and in so doing exposing the mud to the sun's 

 influence (and does it not niff?)." I may also 

 mention that while on the Thames I was run 

 down by an energetic young lady sculler and a 

 contemplative, reposeful gentleman, the latter 

 with notions of steering which were somewhat 

 strange. He steered with the ropes loose, the 

 boat heading up the middle of the river, and, 

 oh! the Ironmould of Fate, the Referee in both 

 hands, so as to be read comfortably. 



The countryside at Goodwood does not alter 

 much. If, as Is inevitable, one friend or acquaint- 

 ance drops out, you may pretty safely reckon on 

 the successors going on their predecessors' lines. 

 The same biggish houses are let each year to 

 the same kind of customers, and the same cottages 

 very profitably and similarly tenanted. If not 

 the same horses draw the racing folk up the 

 north or southern face of the Downs, the gees 

 are very much the same sort, and I dare swear 

 that a great many of the traps are survivors of 

 the original stock put to this trade after being 

 condemned for all other. The same dirt is on 

 many of the aged gippos as encrusted them in 

 the days of their youth — an altogether economical 

 arrangement this, because one set of dirt does 



