Now the same argument holds good with men who are liable to be thrown and kicked by horses, or exposed to the disagreeable contingency of being rolled over or laid upon by their pupils, in that early education at their fences, which all young hunters must go through. A rider in perfect training, with his muscles developed into the elasticity and toughness of _gutta-percha_, without a pound of superfluous flesh on his ribs or an ounce of undigested food in his stomach, not only rides with coolness, quickness, and confidence—the mental result of this physical condition—but rises uninjured from the severe falls and violent concussions to which his daring must occasionally subject him; and should he even be unfortunate enough in some more than usually complicated “cropper” to break a bone or strain a sinew, is cured by dame Nature in so short a space of time as to astonish the attending doctor, who has sufficient presence of mind, nevertheless, to take the whole credit of the recovery on himself. Tips seemed to be made of iron. According to his own account, he never was hurt but once, and that was out of a gig. The circumstances were a little singular, and I had them from his own lips on the first evening of my convalescence, whilst he sipped his gin-and-water, by permission of Miss Lushington, inside the bar. Mr. Naggett, whom I gathered, from his order of “Port-wine-negus, with a scrape of nutmeg and a slice of lemon in it,” to be of the genus “swell,” was summoned away in a hurry to a “gent who wished to see him on business,” as the waiter said, before he could put his own lips to the fragrant mixture or burst on my astonished sight from behind the wooden screen. Tips, accordingly, with the utmost diffidence, and at Miss Lushington’s earnest entreaty, came alongside of my arm-chair, where he remained standing, with his glass in his hand, shifting from one leg to the other, and stirring his gin-and-water with an unnecessary tea-spoon the while. He was dressed in wide cord breeches, leather gaiters, a brown cut-away coat, the thickest worsted waistcoat I ever saw, and the blue-spotted neckerchief, in which I believe he was born, and I am quite sure he will die. “Sorry to see you laid on the shelf, sir,” observed he, with a dab at his forehead as if to remove an imaginary hat, for men of all nations who are much concerned with horses acquire a sort of knowing politeness. I answered feebly that “it was a tedious accident, but, I should think, nothing in _his_ eyes, who had probably broken every bone in his body.” And Miss Lushington smoothed the cushions while I spoke, and adjusted my arm in its sling. The rough-rider shook his head, took a sip of his gin-and-water, and looked thoughtfully into his glass.