And nobody in that
house really cared much for Caneback. He was not a man worthy of
much care. He was possessed of infinite pluck, and now that he was
dying could bear it well. But he had loved no one particularly, had
been dear to no one in these latter days of his life, had been of
very little use in the world, and had done very little more for
society than any other horse-trainer! But nevertheless it is a bore
when a gentleman dies in your house,--and a worse bore if he dies
from an accident than if from an illness for which his own body may
be supposed to be responsible. Though the gout should fly to a
man's stomach in your best bedroom, the idea never strikes you that
your burgundy has done it! But here the mare had done the mischief.
Poor Caneback;--and poor Lord Rufford! The Major was quite certain
that it was all over with himself. He had broken so many of his
bones and had his head so often cracked that he understood his own
anatomy pretty well. There he lay quiet and composed, sipping small
modicums of brandy and water, and taking his outlook into such
transtygian world as he had fashioned for himself in his dull
imagination. If he had misgivings he showed them to no bystander.
If he thought then that he might have done better with his energies
than devote them to dangerous horses, he never said so.
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