"I suppose that is the Rosamund of those pretty verses," said I; "they are evidently cronies."
Perhaps you remember the poem in which a certain "Baby Rosamund" is addressed as "My little crony." John once said it was a "gem."
He now sat lost in thought, instead of looking at the field, till suddenly the whole game came charging down upon us with such a thundering noise that John's horse shied almost from under him. The rider stuck fast, however, and thus recalled to his senses, had the grace to look on, as Ned himself, from out of a tremendous scuffle, sent the ball flying between the goals.
"Pretty work that!" I cried, as the applause subsided.
John assented rather vaguely and then turned his horse's head and seemed about to take French leave. I gave chase and asked where he was going. He said it was so confoundedly hot standing there in the sun that he was going for a ride.
