doesn't like it, and all around him in the field know
how it is with him; he himself knows how it is with others like himself,
and he congregates with his brethren. The period of his penance has come
upon him. He has to pay the price of those pleasant interviews with
his tradesmen. He has to expiate the false boasts made to his female
cousins. That row of boots cannot be made to shine in his chamber for
nothing. The hounds have found, and the fox is away. Men are fastening
on their flat-topped hats and feeling themselves in their stirrups.
Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking it has come, if
only it were possible!

But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man who
doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, cannot check his horse
and simply ride back to the hunting stables. He understands that were he
to do that, he must throw up his cap at once and resign. Nor can he trot
easily along the roads with the fat old country gentleman who is out
on his rough cob, and who, looking up to the wind and remembering the
position of adjacent coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction
in which the field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of
his penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark
of pluck about him, though unfortunately he has brought it to bear in a
wrong direction. The blood still runs at his heart, and he resolves that
he will ride, if only he could tell which way.

The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left with a few
companions; but our friend knows that the stout gentleman has a little
game of his own which will not be suitable for one who intends to ride.
Then the crowd in front has divided itself. Those to the right rush down
a hill towards a brook with a ford. One or two, men whom he hates with
an intensity of envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to their
work. Twenty or thirty others are hustling themselves through the water.
The time for a judicious start on that side is already gone. But others,
a crowd of others, are facing the big ploughed field immediately before
them. That is the straightest riding, and with them he goes. Why has
the scent lain so hot over the up-turned heavy ground? Why do they go
so fast at this the very first blush of the morning? Fortune is always
against him, and the horse is pulling him through the mud as though the
brute meant to drag his arm out of the socket. At the first