Perhaps my reader will best understand his situation from a description of a visit paid, according to custom, by the whole gang to the stables of the Honourable Crasher. Time 4.30, on a dark afternoon, with every appearance of a thaw.
Boadicea, by Bellerophon out of Blue Light, is being stripped for Mr. Sawyer’s inspection. As a compliment to the stranger, he is further invited to “walk up to the mare, and feel how fit she is!” at the risk of having his brains dashed out; Boadicea, by Bellerophon out of Blue Light, resenting such liberties with the ferocity of her British namesake, and kicking with considerable energy when her ribs are tickled. Mr. Tiptop, by far too great a man to touch a rug or hood, gives his directions from the offing, with his hat very much over his eyes, removing it only when addressed by his master, his legs very wide apart, and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tight trousers.
Captain Struggles, a heavy gentleman, who rides light-weight horses, and wears a shooting suit of the broadest check fabricated, takes a straw out of his mouth, and observes, “That’s about the sort, I think, when you want to do the trick over _this_ country. Ain’t it, Tiptop?”
Mr. Tiptop is always mysterious and oracular concerning the Honourable’s stud. Somebody, he thinks, ought to preserve the secrets of the stable, and Crasher himself is the most indiscreet of mortals on such subjects. So the groom raises his hat with both hands, puts it on again, and replies, “We like to get all of _ours_ as nearly as possible about that mould. There’s a young horse as is quite one of _your_ sort, Captain, in the next box.” Whereupon Mr. Sawyer, who had no patience with Tiptop, winks at Major Brush, and the latter bursts out laughing.
The conversation now becomes general, and not altogether devoid of personality.
“_Your sort_ are rather of the weedy order, Struggles,” observes the Major. “Too light for _this_ country, as you’ll find out before you’re many days older, now that we’ve got the ground to ride as it should do, up to our girths. Besides, those thorough-bred rips never have courage to face large fences. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Sawyer?”
The Major has not yet forgiven Struggles for stopping him on the last day they were out, at the only practicable place in a bullfinch, on which the heavy weight and a very little chestnut stallion were see-sawing backwards and forwards, like some exquisitely-balanced piece of machinery. Mr. Sawyer, thus appealed to, gives his opinion, thinking of the roan the while: “They _must_ have power, I fancy, for these flying countries, but they must have blood _too_. I should like to show you a horse I’ve just bought, that I mean to hunt to-morrow if the frost goes. My stables are ‘close at hand.’”