At that moment, of all the places in the world that I could think
of--and I could think of a great many because the events of my past
life were rapidly flashing past me--as is customary, I am told, in
other cases of grave peril, such as drowning--I say of all the
places in the world there were just two where I least desired to
be--one was up on top of that horse and the other was down under
him. But it seemed to be a choice of the two evils, and so I chose
the lesser and got under him. I did this by a simple expedient
that occurred to me at the moment. I fell off. I was tramped on
considerably, and the earth proved to be harder than it looked
when viewed from an approximate height of sixteen miles up, but I
lived and breathed--or at least I breathed after a time had
elapsed--and I was satisfied. And so, having gone through this
experience myself, I am in position to appreciate what any other
man of my general build is going through as I see him bobbing by--
the poor martyr, sacrificing himself as a burnt offering, or anyway
a blistered one--on the high altar of a Gothic ruin of a horse.
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