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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

troubles was that he'd never learnt how to blow his
horn properly, and his inexpert tootlings afforded an
adequate excuse for those who enjoyed ridiculing him.

Chief among thc<c was Nigel Croplady. When I
first observed him lie was sitting sideways on his
compact short-tailed brown horse; a glossy top-hat
was tilted over his nose. His supercilious, clean-
shaven face was preoccupied with a loose-lipped
inspection of his own left leg; his boot-tops were a
delicate shell-pink, and his well-cleaned white
"leathers'1* certainly justified his self-satisfied scrutiny
of them.

"That blighter's always talking about getting a
flying-start," remarked Stephen in an undertone,
"but when hounds run he's the most chicken-hearted
skirter in Sussex." I was able to verify this later in
the day when I saw him go irresolutely at a small
fence on a bank, pull his horse across it with a shout
of "Ware wire!" and hustle away in search of a gate,
leaving a hard-riding fanner to take it in his stride—
the wire having been an improvisation of Groplady's
over-prudent mind.

The group which I was watching also included two
undemonstrative elderly men (both of whom, said
Stephen, were fifty pound subscribers and important
covert owners) and several weather-beaten ladies,
none of whom looked afraid of a liberal allowance
of mud and water*

The Rev. Gohvood (who was on a one-eyed screw
which his soldier-sou had picked up for seventeen
pounds at a sale of Army remounts) now joined the
group. He was sitting well forward in the saddle
with the constrained look of a man who rather expects
his horse to cross its front legs and pitch him over its
head* Beside hint, on a plump white weight-carrier,

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