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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. And, besides, I know that riding a horse doesn’t reduce a fat man. It merely reduces the horse.

So it goes–the fat man is always up against it. His figure is half-masted in regretful memory of the proportions he had once, and he is made to mourn. Most sports and many gainful pursuits are closed against him. He cannot play lawn tennis, or, at least according to my observation, he cannot play lawn tennis oftener than once in two weeks. In between games he limps round, stiff as a hat tree and sore as a mashed thumb. Time was when he might mingle in the mystic mazes of the waltz, tripping the light fantastic toe or stubbing it, as the case may be. But that was in the days of the old-fashioned square dance, which was the fat man’s friend among dances, and also of the old-fashioned two-step, and not in these times when dancing is a cross between a wrestling match, a contortion act and a trip on a roller-coaster, and is either named for an animal, like the Bunny Hug and the Tarantula Glide, or for a town, like the Mobile Mop-Up, and the Far Rockaway Rock and the South Bend Bend. His friends would interfere–or the authorities would. He can go in swimming, it is true; but if he turns over and floats, people yell out that somebody has set the life raft adrift; and if he basks at the water’s edge, boats will come in and try to dock alongside him; and if he takes a sun bath on the beach and sunburns, there’s so everlasting much of him to be sunburned that he practically amounts to a conflagration. He can’t shoot rapids, craps or big game with any degree of comfort; nor play billiards. He can’t get close enough to the table to make the shots, and he puts all the English on himself and none of it on the cue ball.

Consider the gainful pursuits. Think how many of them are denied to the man who may have energy and ability but is shut out because there are a few extra terraces on his front lawn. A fat man cannot be a leading man in a play. Nobody desires a fat hero for a novel. A fat man cannot go in for aeroplaning. He cannot be a wire-walker or a successful walker of any of the other recognized brands–track, cake, sleep or floor. He doesn’t make a popular waiter. Nobody wants a fat waiter on a hot day. True, you may make him bring your order under covered dishes, but even so, there is still that suggestion of rain on a tin roof that is distasteful to so many.