“Well, my lord,” said a sort of foreman, or partner, or managing man, who usually presided over the yard, “I think we’ll be apt to get justice to Ireland on the downs this year. That is, they’ll give us nothing but what we takes from ’em by hard fighting, or running, as the case may be.”
“How’s Brien looking this morning, Grady?”
“As fresh as a primrose, my lord, and as clear as crystal: he’s ready, this moment, to run through any set of three years old as could be put on the Curragh, anyway.”
“I’m afraid you’re putting him on too forward.”
“Too forrard, is it, my lord? not a bit. He’s a hoss as naturally don’t pick up flesh; though he feeds free, too. He’s this moment all wind and bottom, though, as one may say, he’s got no training. He’s niver been sthretched yet. Faith it’s thrue I’m telling you, my lord.”
“I know Scott doesn’t like getting horses, early in the season, that are too fine—too much drawn up; he thinks they lose power by it, and so they do;—it’s the distance that kills them, at the Derby. It’s so hard to get a young horse to stay the distance.”
“That’s thrue, shure enough, my lord; and there isn’t a gentleman this side the wather, anyway, undherstands thim things betther than your lordship.”
“Well, Grady, let’s have a look at the young chieftain: he’s all right about the lungs, anyway.”
“And feet too, my lord; niver saw a set of claner feet with plates on: and legs too! If you were to canter him down the road, I don’t think he’d feel it; not that I’d like to thry, though.”
“Why, he’s not yet had much to try them.”