Your Honour

Abstract

Mr Patrick Gilhooley came out of Sinnot’s riding-school in Park Gate Street at four o’clock in the afternoon. He had just taken his first lesson in horsemanship. He felt numb all over the body. Although he walked as usual, by pitching his flat feet out sideways like a motherly old cow, he felt sure that he walked like a cavalry officer. Therefore, in spite of his soreness and the memory of the smile he had seen on an impudent stable-boy’s face during the lesson, he felt very proud of himself. His yellow top-boots had creases above the ankles. His brown riding breeches were made of the most expensive cord. His jazz pull-over was in the latest fashion. His smart bowler hat was perched at a daring angle. Phew! He felt a very fine and dashing fellow.