Golightly bustled on, wishing that he
had brought an umbrella. 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. The back of the
helmet was flapping on his neck and the sides stuck to his ears, but the
leather band and green lining kept things roughly together, so that the hat
did not actually melt away where it flapped.
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