Such is Life | Page 9

oul' is she, sur?"
"Six, this spring."
"Ay--that! Ye wud n't be fur partin' we her, sur? A'm mortial covetious fur till git thon baste. Houl' an"--he pondered a moment, glancing first at the honest-looking hack he was riding, then at the magnificent animal which carried the half-caste. "Houl' an. Gimme a thrifle fur luck, an' take ether wan o' them two. A'll thrust ye till do the leck fur me some time afther."
He had been travelling with the red-headed fellow, and the fascination of swapping was upon him, poorly backed by his suicidal candour. The utter simplicity of his bracketing his own two horses--worth, respectively, to all appearance, ��8 and ��30--and the frank confession of his desire to have my mare at any price, made me feel honestly compunctious.
"Now thon's a brave loose lump iv a baste," he continued, following my eye as I glanced over the half-caste's splendid mount. "Aisy till ketch, an' as quite as ye plaze."
"How old is he, Mr. M'Nab?"
"He must be purty oul', he's so quite and thractable. Ye kin luck at his mouth. A don't ondherstand the marks myself."
I opened the horse's mouth. He was just five. I regret to record that I shook my head gravely, and observed:
"You've had him a long time, Mr. M'Nab?"
"Divil a long. A got him in a swap, as it might be this time yistherday. There's the resate. An' here's the resate the man got when he bought him out o' Hillston poun'. Ye can't go beyant a poun' resate."
"Why do you want to get rid of the horse, Mr. M'Nab?"
"Begog, A don't want till git red iv the baste, sich as he is," replied M'Nab resentfully. "But A want thon wee shilty, an' A evened a swap till ye, fur it's a prodistaner thing nor lavin' a man on his feet, so it is."
"See anything wrong with the horse, Steve?" I asked in an undertone.
"Perfect to the eye," murmured Thompson. "Try him a mile, full tilt."
I made the proposal to M'Nab, and he eagerly agreed. At my suggestion, the half-caste unhitched and tried Fancy, while I mounted the black horse, and turned him across the plain. I tried him at all paces; but never before had I met with anything to equal that elastic step and long, easy, powerful stride. To ride that horse was to feel free, exultant, invincible. His gallop was like Marching Through Georgia, vigorously rendered by a good brass band. All that has been written of man's noblest friend-- from the dim, uncertain time when some unknown hand, in a leisure moment, dashed off the Thirty-ninth chapter of the Book of Job, to the yesterday when Long Gordon translated into ringing verse the rhythmic clatter of the hoof-beats he loved so well--all might find fulfilment in this unvalued beast, now providentially owned by the softest of foreigners.
"Well?" interrogated M'Nab, as I rejoined him.
"Don't you think he's a bit chest-foundered?" I asked in reply.
"Divil a wan o' me knows. Mebbe he is, begog. Sure A hed n't him long enough fur till fine out."
"And how much boot are you going to give me?" I asked, with a feeling of shame which did honour to my heart.
"Och, now, lave this! Boot! is it? Sure A cud kerry thon wee shilty ondher may oxther! Ye have a right till be givin' me a thrifle fur luck. A'll let ye aff we two notes."
But after five minutes' more palaver, M'Nab agreed to an even swap. I had pen and ink in my pocket; my note-book supplied paper; and receipts were soon exchanged. Then the saddles were shifted, and we cantered ahead till we rejoined Thompson. I tied my new acquisition behind the wagon, where, for the first five minutes, he severely tested the inch rope which secured him.
"Now, Mr. M'Nab," said I, "I'll give you my word that the mare is just what you see. You may as well tell me what's wrong with the horse?"
"Ax Billy about thon. Mebbe he's foun' out some thricks, or somethin'."
"Well, look here," said Billy devoutly--"I hope Gord'll strike me stark, stiff, stone dead off o' this saddle if the horse has any tricks, or anythin' wrong with him, no more nor the man in the moon. Onna bright. There! I've swore it."
"Well, the mare is as good as gold," I reiterated. "She's one among a hundred. Call her Fancy."
"The horse's name's Clayopathra," rejoined M'Nab; "an' by gog ye'll fine him wan out iv a thousan'. A chris'ned him Clayopathra, fur A thought till run him."
"A very good name too," I replied affably. "I should be sorry to change it."
And I never did change it, though, often afterward, men of clerkly attainments took me aside and kindly pointed out what they conceived to be a blunder. I have dwelt, perhaps tediously, upon