thing sure.  How do you expect a horse to be sensible or quiet when he knows that he isn’t saddled right?  Any horse knows that much, and whether he has an ass for a rider.  I’d kick and bite too if I were some of these horses, having a lot of damned fools and wasters to pack all over the country.  Loosen that belt and fasten it right” (there might be nothing wrong with it) “and move your saddle up.  Do you want to sit over the horse’s rump?”

Then would come the fateful moment of mounting.  There was of course the accepted and perfect way—­his way:  left foot in stirrup, an easy balanced spring and light descent into the seat.  One should be able to slip the right foot into the right stirrup with the same motion of mounting.  But imagine fifty, sixty, seventy men, all sizes, weights and differing conditions of health and mood.  A number of these people had never ridden a horse before coming here and were as nervous and frightened as children.  Such mounts!  Such fumbling around, once they were in their saddles, for the right stirrup!  And all the while Culhane would be sitting out front like an army captain on the only decent steed in the place, eyeing us with a look of infinite and weary contempt that served to increase our troubles a thousandfold.

“Well, you’re all on, are you?  You all do it so gracefully I like to sit here and admire you.  Hulbert there throws his leg over his horse’s back so artistically that he almost kicks his teeth out.  And Effingham does his best to fall off on the other side.  And where’s Itzky?  I don’t even see him.  Oh, yes, there he is.  Well” (this to Itzky, frantically endeavoring to get one fat foot in a stirrup and pull himself up), “what about you?  Can’t you get your leg that high?  Here’s a man who for twenty-five years has been running a cloak-and-suit business and employing five hundred people, but he can’t get on a horse!  Imagine!  Five hundred people dependent on that for their living!” (At this point, say, Itzky succeeds in mounting.) “Well, he’s actually on!  Now see if you can stick while we ride a block or two.  You’ll find the right stirrup, Itzky, just a little forward of your horse’s belly on the right side—­see?  A fine bunch this is to lead out through a gentleman’s country!  Hell, no wonder I’ve got a bad reputation throughout this section!  Well, forward, and see if you can keep from falling off.”

Then we were out through the stable-door and the privet gate at a smart trot, only to burst into a headlong gallop a little farther on down the road.  To the seasoned riders it was all well enough, but to beginners, those nervous about horses, fearful about themselves!  The first day, not having ridden in years and being uncertain as to my skill, I could scarcely stay on.  Several days later, I by then having become a reasonably seasoned rider, it was Mr. Itzky who appeared on the scene, and after him various others.  On this particular trip I am thinking of, Mr. Itzky fell or rolled off and could not again mount.  He was miles from the repair shop and Culhane, discovering his plight, was by no means sympathetic.  We had a short ride back to where he sat lamely by the roadside viewing disconsolately the cavalcade and the country in general.