“But it isn't fun I'm come for. I want to learn to ride.”
“Then you are too old. Why, we begin as soon as we can stand on a horse's back.”
“Oh, I don't mean to ride standing. I want to sit a horse, rearing, or plunging, or blundering over rough ground.”
“What will you stand?”
“A sovereign.”
The clown dived into the public-house, and told a dark seedy man, with his black hair plastered and rolled effeminately, that he had got a bloke who would stand a quid for a mount. The two came out, and the plastered Italian went to the stables: the melancholy punster conducted Henry into the arena, and stood beside him like Patience on a monument. Presently a quiet mare ran in, and stuck.
Henry was mounted, and cantered her round, the two men instinctively following in a smaller circle, with jaws as long as your arm.
“This is delightful,” said Henry; “but I might as well be sitting in a chair. What I want is a Prancer.”
Then they brought him another horse, just as docile as the mare. The obedient creature, at a signal, reared suddenly, and seated Mr. Little on the sawdust behind him. A similar result was attained several times, by various means. But Henry showed himself so tough, courageous, and persistent, that he made great progress, and his good-humor won his preceptors. They invited him to come tomorrow, at an earlier hour, and bring half a quid with him. He did so, and this time there was an American rider rehearsing, who showed Henry what to do, and what not to do; and gave him a most humorous and instructive lesson. Indeed, his imitations of bad riding were so truthful and funny, that even the clown was surprised into one laugh; he who rarely smiled, unless in the way of business.
“Well, sir,” said Henry, “you have given me a good lesson; now take a hint from me; just you go and do all this before the public; for I never saw you do any thing half as droll.”