It was only a small field of some twenty-five riders, but there was not one who did not mean going.

I was mounted on a young horse, a powerful, big-boned black, a great jumper, though perhaps a trifle hot-headed.

Lodge was on a fine bay, which could both run and jump.

There were two or three other New Yorkers and Bostonians present, several men who had come up from Buffalo for the run, a couple of retired army officers, a number of farmers from the neighborhood; and finally several members of a noted local family of hard riders, who formed a class by themselves, all having taken naturally to every variety of horsemanship from earliest infancy.
It was a thoroughly democratic assemblage; every one was there for sport, and nobody cared an ounce how he or anybody else was dressed.
Slouch hats, brown coats, corduroy breeches, and leggings, or boots, were the order of the day.

We cast off in a thick wood.