At that time he lost all hold on realities and certainty. His horses must have been in a maze of difficulties. He began according to entirely different methods, and anyone who had known his previous methods must have admitted that the new methods were none at all. What cared he now for twenty paces? What cared he now at what point he said “he!” “heesta!” at what point he said “Cl” “Cl,” at what point he shouted “Whoa up,” when he was to belabour them with the whip and when he was to swear? He mixed and tangled all his vocabulary in careless confusion, swore where he ought to have said “heesta!” flogged where he ought to have sworn, and said “Cl” where the horses expected the lash. Now they never dared to halt of their own accord, for then he let fly at them all at once a volley of all the abusive epithets which he had in his pate, just as when wind, thunder, and raindrops come down pell mell together. The horses now walked past the alehouse and the tobacconist and the fruit stall and the other noteworthy snuggeries in those quarters as though they were demented—they had unlearned the habit of halting and were only thankful when they had got through the day with a whole skin.
Hence, once more the connoisseur and the tyro in horseflesh might count their ribs and could say from their coat of hair how far the straps were to blame and how far the collar was at fault. Perhaps
