I told him he had better be careful that his hat did not blow off and interfere with the shooting.
We stood behind the two men who had tied for the Gold Medal, and were shooting off the tie.
He had just begun to say “my hat never blows off,”—when his hat soared off his head like a clay pigeon out of a trap, and landed just in front of the man who was aiming. My companion was a “hat worshipper,” one to whom his hat is everything. They hold it on when on a runaway horse. If it blows off they will dive under a train in motion after it, or do things to save their hat which would gain them the Victoria Cross in battle.
He at once started to jump over the prone shooter after the hat, but I held him back. All interest in the match was gone, he had eyes only to watch his hat.
I finally got him a little calmer by explaining that though the shooters were most probably wishing the hat in a place where straw would soon kindle, they would not shoot through his hat (I am not talking thus, only slightly exaggerating).
Men who worship their hats do not like trotters because they splash them.
There was one of the rare winters in England when one could get a few days’ sleigh driving.
A man had long worried me to let him take some photographs of my trotters in a sleigh. I telegraphed him to come at once and I would take him out in a sleigh and he could take snow photos.
I met him at the station with a pair of trotters, both able to trot below 2:18, hitched to a light two-man cutter sleigh.
He was delighted, got tucked in beside me with his camera and said he would take one or two photos of the horses from where he sat.