Mr. Hannaford was hugely delighted, and having begged his lordship's pardon for the mistake, gave it as his deliberate opinion that a young gentleman who could pretend he was a norse all day long was a Pocket Marvel.
The Pocket Marvel performed a prance or two in order to show that this estimate of him was well merited, and they proceeded to the stables, Mr. Hannaford, as they walked, making clear, to the tune of astonishing leg-and-cane cracks, the reasons why the right place for a little 'orse had been selected by his lordship.
"There's money in little 'orses," said Mr. Hannaford. (Crack!) "And I'm one of the few that know it." (Crack!) He broke off, stared towards the house, face changing from its superb red to astonishing purple, and to a distant figure roared "Garge!" in a voice like a clap of thunder. "Garge! Fetch that pig out of the flower beds! You want my stick about your back, Garge; bless my eighteen stun proper if you don't."
"Pardon, me lord," begged Mr. Hannaford, bringing his stick back to his leg from where it had flourished at Garge, and continuing: "There's more demand for little 'orses than anybody that hasn't given brain to it would believe, me lord. Gentlefolks' little girls want little 'orses and gentlefolks' little boys want little 'orses; gentlefolks' little carts want little 'orses, young gentlemen want little polo 'orses, and circuses want little trick 'orses. Where are they going to get 'em?" inquired Mr. Hannaford, and answered his question with: "They're coming to me." (Crack!)
"Capital!" declared Lord Burdon, who was finding Mr. Hannaford a man nearer to his liking than any he had met within the radius of Mount Street.
"Capital's the word," agreed Mr. Hannaford. "Bless my eighteen stun proper if it isn't!" (Crack!) "It will take time, mind you, me lord. I'm doing it in stages. Stage One: circus little 'orses. I rackon I'm level with Stage One now. Started with circus little 'orses because I was in the circus line once and my brother Martin—Stingo they call him, me lord—is in it now. Proper connaction with circus little 'orses I've worked up. They come to me when they want a circus little 'orse, bless my eighteen stun proper if they don't." (Crack!) "Stage Two: little gentlefolks' little 'orses—just starting that now, me lord. Stage Three: gentlefolks' little carts' little 'orses. Stage Four: young gentlemen's little polo 'orses. What I want," declared Mr. Hannaford with a culminating crack of tremendous proportions, "is to make people when they see a little 'orse think of Hannaford. Hannaford—little 'orse; little 'orse—Hannaford. Two words one meaning, one meaning two words; that's my lay and I'll do it, bless my eighteen stun proper if I won't!" (Crack!)
"'Pon my soul it's a big scheme," said Lord Burdon, highly entertained and beginning to realise that this was no common man.
"Correct!" Mr. Hannaford assured him, and confided with a terrible crack: "I call it a whopper. One of these days Stingo will settle down and join me and there'll be no more holding us than you can hold a little 'orse with your finger and thumb."
"Settle down?" Lord Burdon questioned, greatly interested. "Younger than you, eh?"
"Three and a half minutes," returned Mr. Hannaford, and added, "Twins," in reply to Lord Burdon's exclamation of surprise. "Not much in point of time, but very different in point of nature. Wants settling down; then he'll be all right. You'll see Stingo in a minute, me lord; he's here," and Mr. Hannaford pointed to the line of sheds they had reached. "On a visit," he explained; and added with a heavy sigh: "Here to-day and gone to-morrow; that's Stingo."