The dust on the roads
turned into mud, and the pony mired a good deal. So did Golightly's
khaki gaiters. But he kept on steadily and tried to think how
pleasant the coolth was.
His next pony was rather a brute at starting, and Golightly's hands
being slippery with the rain, contrived to get rid of Golightly at a
corner. He chased the animal, caught it, and went ahead briskly.
The spill had not improved his clothes or his temper, and he had
lost one spur. He kept the other one employed. By the time that
stage was ended, the pony had had as much exercise as he wanted,
and, in spite of the rain, Golightly was sweating freely. At the
end of another miserable half-hour, Golightly found the world
disappear before his eyes in clammy pulp. The rain had turned the
pith of his huge and snowy solah-topee into an evil-smelling dough,
and it had closed on his head like a half-opened mushroom. Also the
green lining was beginning to run.
Golightly did not say anything worth recording here. He tore off
and squeezed up as much of the brim as was in his eyes and ploughed
on.
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