Marathon, then, was a long bay horse, about fifteen-two, with short legs, a round barrel, well ribbed up, and an enormous swish-tail, of which he made considerable use. He was one of those doubtfully-shaped animals which are condemned alike by the eye of the totally inexperienced and the consummate judges of horseflesh, but which are much coveted by that large class of purchasers with whom “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
And here I must remark how correct is usually our first impression of a horse; and how seldom ladies—who judge of these, as of all other articles, at a glance—are mistaken in their opinion of the noble animal, if indeed they condescend to turn their attention to his “make-and-shape.”
The worst point about Marathon was his head, which was coarse, and denoted a sulky temper; but he carried a beautiful coat; could stride away for a mile or so, on light ground, with his hind legs under him, in the form of a racehorse; and in short was never so graphically described as by Mr. Job Sloper, when he sold him for sixty guineas and a set of phaeton harness to his present owner: “If that there horse aint worth five hundred, why, he aint worth fifteen sovereigns—that’s all.”
And Mr. Sawyer has since confessed to himself, on more than one occasion, that Job Sloper was right.
Mr. Tiptop liked Isaac, because he thought him an original; and the swell groom, who was as epicurean in his tastes as if he had been a Peer, took the pleasure of his friend’s society over a can of egg-flip and a pipe of Cavendish daily, after evening stables; during which convivialities, the hard-headedness peculiar to the aborigines of the Old Country was of infinite service to the latter, who wormed out all the secrets of the Honourable Crasher’s stable, without betraying his own.
“And there _is_ some talk of a steeple-chase amongst these nobs, is there?” said Isaac, ordering at the same time a third call of “the flip,” and knocking the ashes from his pipe with an exceedingly horny finger.
“_Talk_ of it! indeed there is,” answered Mr. Tiptop, whose face was beginning to redden with his potations. “And a precious exhibition it will be, too. Ride! There isn’t one of ’em as don’t believe he’s down to every move in the game; and I’d take that boy of yours—though he _is_ but a boy, and not the best of hands, neither—and teach him to outride every man of ’em in a fortnight! Such a mess as they made of it last year! Blessed if I wasn’t quite ashamed of the Honourable, to see him rollin’ about in a striped jacket, like a zebra in convulsions! What’s the use getting a horse fit, when the _man’s_ blown in three fields? But I don’t mind telling _you_, now,” added he, confidentially, and fixing his eyes on the tallow candle that stood between them—“I don’t mind telling _you_; for there’s money to be made of it. He’ll win it this year, if he’ll only sit _still_!”