THE JOHN GAUNT GALLOP. 



169 



agony on the turf, liis steed with dragging reins cropping 

 the grass by his side. " Here ! Talve my flask ! ! " 

 shouted the Samaritan, flinging himself from his saddle, 

 and unsheathing a glass receptacle holding at least a very 

 imperial pint. " For Heaven's sake, man, speak ! Are 

 you badly hurt?" And with a merry smile the object of 



" HERE ! TAKE MY FLASK ! ! " 



his solicitude spoke. " Hurt ? no, thanks, not at all. 

 I'm only rubbing the rough edge of the dirt ofl' my back ! 

 But I think I'll take a drink." So charity suffered with 

 becoming meekness the loss of his place In the run, 

 besides half the contents of his flask. 



All this time hounds had been streaming away, at 

 first with their heads towards the distant height of 

 Burrough Hill, then witli a bend to the right (which 

 proved, I am told, of grateful assistance to more than 

 one of the party struggling against the pace) as if for 



