To their right
a band of youths, arrayed in coloured shirts, white linen breeches,
and yellow boots, and wearing little coloured caps, jauntily set upon
their heads, were careering wildly hither and thither on swift and
wiry ponies. They were waving in the air long sticks, fitted with a
cross block of wood at the end, and were pursuing a wooden ball. Many
were the collisions, the crashes, and the falls. On every side men
and ponies rolled over in the dust; but they rose, shook themselves
as though nothing had happened, and dashed again into the fray. Father
TIME shouted with enthusiasm.
"Yes," said the Sage, "you do well to cheer them. They are gallant
youngsters these. The game they play is 'Polo,' and though the expense
be great, the contempt of danger and pain is also great. They play it
well, but I doubt not we could match them at Hurlingham. But see," he
added, "on our left. What rabble is that?" As he spoke a panting deer
flew past them hard pressed by a pack of yelping hounds. Close behind
came a mob of riders, two or three of them glittering in scarlet and
gold, the rest in every variety of riding-dress.
"Behold," said the Arch-philosopher, "a Royal Sport. These are the
Castorian Buck-hounds; that elderly gentleman is their master. They
pay him L1500 a-year to provide sport for Cockneys. The sport consists
in letting a deer out of a cart and chasing him till he nearly dies
of fatigue.
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