"What date, d'ye say?"
"Seventeenth."
"Seventeenth, sir…. That's to-day, ain't it?"
The old man grunted.
"Started this morning—sharp work."
"He was riding a thorough-bred … sir."
"What's a furrow-bred?… plough-oss?"
"Plough-horse!" sparkling scorn. "It's the best sort of horse going."
"What if it be?—I'm a sea-man myself—not a postboy…. How d'ye know he was ridin a what-d'ye-call-it?"
"He always does."