“Faix, he has, my lord: didn’t he win the Autumn Produce Stakes?”
“The only thing he ever ran for.”
“Ah, but I tell you, as your lordship knows very well—no one betther—that it’s a ticklish thing to bring a two year old to the post, in anything like condition—with any running in him at all, and not hurt his legs.”
“But I think he’s all right—eh, Grady?”
“Right?—your lordship knows he’s right. I wish he may be made righter at John Scott’s, that’s all. But that’s unpossible.”
“Of course, Grady, you think he might be trained here, as well as at the other side of the water?”
“No, I don’t, my lord: quite different. I’ve none of thim ideas at all, and never had, thank God. I knows what we can do, and I knows what they can do:—breed a hoss in Ireland, train him in the North of England, and run him in the South; and he’ll do your work for you, and win your money, steady and shure.”
“And why not run in the North, too?”
“They’re too ’cute, my lord: they like to pick up the crumbs themselves—small blame to thim in that matther. No; a bright Irish nag, with lots of heart, like Brien Boru, is the hoss to stand on for the Derby; where all run fair and fair alike, the best wins;—but I won’t say but he’ll be the betther for a little polishing at Johnny Scott’s.”
“Besides, Grady, no horse could run immediately after a sea voyage. Do you remember what a show we made of Peter Simple at Kilrue?”