DUKE OF GRAFTON. 1886.
My first evening at the Fox's is never forgotten, for I made an amusing blunder in all the superiority and imagined importance of nineteen years.
Harry Fox, the son of the house, was then twenty-one. On that memorable evening I was sitting in the drawing-room when he entered, and, attempting to be friendly and conversational, I said to him—
"Well, are you home from school now?"
My friend, who married an equally fine horse-woman, was a splendid rider in those days (as he is now). He was always dapper in his appearance, and alert in his bearing. My hunting days began when I visited Alderley Edge, and although I had ridden at Upton, Slough, I was somewhat of a novice at the riding with which I here intended to compete.
I followed the hounds upon a powerful weight carrier called the "Count," and became a very good acrobat when I was riding him. The horse over-jumped a good deal, but, growing accustomed to seeing me come over his ears, would wait until I got on to his back again. I jumped over everything, and because I had very little experience, I did not profit by the example of some of the finest riders when I saw them avoiding unnecessary obstacles.
One day I was riding the "Count" and when jumping a hedge, I lighted on my head. If you can think you have broken your neck, I did at that moment. Another rider following nearly landed on top of me.
"Are you hurt?" he called.
"Give me some brandy," I replied, stirring from what I had previously imagined to be my last sleep. Instead, he cantered on. It was enough: I could speak.