hich always carries conviction. "And
he can jump?" "He can jump!" continued the groom; "no 'orse in my
lord's stables can't beat him." "But he won't?" said Phineas. "It's
only sometimes, sir, and then the best thing is to stick him at it
till he do. He'll go, he will, like a shot at last; and then he's
right for the day." Hunting men will know that all this was not quite
comfortable. When you ride your own horse, and know his special
defects, you know also how far that defect extends, and what real
prospect you have of overcoming it. If he be slow through the mud,
you keep a good deal on the road in heavy weather, and resolve that
the present is not an occasion for distinguishing yourself. If he be
bad at timber, you creep through a hedge. If he pulls, you get as far
from the crowd as may be. You gauge your misfortune, and make your
little calculation as to the best mode of remedying the evil. But
when you are told that your friend's horse is perfect,--only that he
does this or that,--there comes a weight on your mind from which you
are unable to release it. You cannot discount your trouble at any
percentage. It may amount to absolute ruin, as far as that day is
concerned; and in such a circumstance you always look forward to the
worst. When the groom had done his description, Phineas Finn would
almost have preferred a day's canvass at Tankerville under Mr.
Ruddles's authority to his present position.

When the hounds entered Broughton Spinnies, Phineas and Madame
Goesler were still together. He had not been riding actually at her
side all the morning. Many men and two or three ladies had been
talking to her. But he had never been far from her in the ruck, and
now he was again close by her horse's head. Broughton Spinnies were
in truth a series of small woods, running one into another almost
without intermission, never thick, and of no breadth. There was
always a litter or two of cubs at the place, and in no part of the
Brake country was greater care taken in the way of preservation and
encouragement to interesting vixens; but the lying was bad; there was
little or no real covert; and foxes were very apt to travel and get
away into those big woods belonging to the Duke,--where, as the Brake
sportsmen now believed, they would almost surely come to an untimely
end. "If we draw this blank I don't know what we are to do," said Mr.
Spooner, addressing himself to Madame Goesler with lachrymose
anxiety.

"Have you nothing e