“Hunt? My master doesn’t, but people he knows do. I’m sure your master doesn’t.”
Lele groaned. “Well, however I’m going to suit goodness knows. I shall die of yawning and rust out before a month is over.”
“As I was saying,” said the vicar to his friend, “I think he is a perfect little horse. He is quiet, as you see, and I’m not likely to kill him with work. I just go my usual round, but I do like a well-bred horse. He’ll have a very easy time of it with me.” Lele groaned louder than ever.
“We have not stiff hills in this neighbourhood.”
Lele grew restive.
“And life is much the same all the year round.”
“Shall I bolt?” fumed Lele.
“I ride for an hour in the mor—”
“Look here, I can’t stand this. In all the homes I’ve had there’s been something to do. There’s been steeplechasing in Spring—hunting—”
“Why, the hounds are out,” called Mr. Dobson. He was riding a little way in front and could see over the hedge. “See! there’s the whip making for Cranstone Hill! Is he used to following the hounds?”