“Oats be—” he began, and then pitched on to the mane, “oats be—” and here he just clutched the saddle in time to save himself from retiring over the tail—“oats be blowed!”
“It ain't oats that's the matter with 'em,” said a bluff voice behind me.
I turned and saw Sir Henry looking with an experienced eye at this performance.
“What is it?” I inquired.
“Vice,” said he. “I know that fiddle-headed brute well; no mistakin' him. It's the beast that broke poor Oswald's neck last season. His widow sold him to a dealer at Rugby for fifteen pounds, and, by Jove! here he is again, just waitin' for a chance to break yours!”
He turned his critical eye to Halfred's refractory steed.
“And I think I remember that dancin' stallion, too,” he added, grimly. “Gad! you'll have some fun to-day, monsieur!”
This was cheerful, but there was no getting out of it now. Indeed, the huntsman and the pack were already leading the way to the first covert and everybody was on the move behind them. I mounted my homicide during one of its calmer intervals, the villagers bolted out of the way, and in a moment we were clearing a course through the throng like a charge of cavalry.
“Steady there, steady!” bawled the master of the hunt. “Keep back, will you?”
With some difficulty I managed to take my mount plunging and sidling out to where Halfred was galloping in circles at a little distance from the rest of the field.