incredible labour that he has to perform to get it, but—well, after all, marmalade between brown bread and butter does not come along every day. Yes, these excursions have their better side. So by the time we are finally disposed in the rear corners of the toy vehicle, he has very likely brisked up, and on the principle that the sooner the pill is swallowed the sooner the jam is got, he generally sets off at a brisk pace.
This he maintains for one hundred yards.
Then he comes to the gate of his paddock, and, throwing aside his virtues, makes one short but determined effort to take us to tea on the other side of our own party fence. I frustrate this—for I am an accomplished club ("club" as a synonym for the ass-driver is better because more true than "whip "), and I know his habits. All this involves a certain amount of pulling on one rein, which he regards as a signal to halt. This he does. I speak softly to him—we are in the middle of the village, and my blood has not yet begun to mount—urging him forward. So he walks at funeral pace past his dear gate, and having buried his hope yet once again, takes the next quarter-mile with a great deal of unnecessary action. Fixing one's eyes steadily upon him and ignoring all other things, one would suppose that one was racing over the road. Glance at the
