Within a week the Baker was carefully shod by old Jimmy, and put into regular work. He proved a delightful mount, and seemed thoroughly to appreciate being ridden, especially on the turf, and popped over fences with an agility that spoke of practice.
“I declare, Sis,” said her brother after a rousing gallop round the fields, “you are a witch. This horse is a treasure and worth a pot of money. I shall school him a little, hunt him, and if he turns out well, will enter him for some of the big races at Leopardstown and Punchestown—and we will keep him dark—back him—and make our fortunes.”
Jimmy Horrigan, the blacksmith, was also a sincere admirer of the Baker, and on Sundays would come up to the stable, lean on the half-door, pipe in mouth, and talk him over with old Pat.
“He is a great plan of a horse, and I was watching him being schooled, and begor! I never ask to see a better lepper, bold and quick and safe as the Rock of Cashel. Faix, he would make a big bid for the Grand National.” Seeing young Mahon approach, he said, “Come here to me now, Mr. Tom, till I tell ye something.”
“What is it, Jimmy?”
“Ye have a fortune here in the black horse.”
“I know that.”
“But ye don’t know everything,” waxing confidential and speaking behind his hand. “Lately it has been put in me way to open yer eyes. Ye mind Mr. Grady who died a couple of years back and the grand auction of his horses—pedigree mares, foals, and chasers? This horse here,” nodding over the half-door, “was in that sale—and sold by mistake.”
“How do you make that out?”
“It was a big business—two days—and the last day, when it was getting darkish, a groom who had taken drink mixed two lots, Sarsfield and his half-brother—the dog-cart horse. Some poor divil bought him for Sarsfield, who had a great character though untried, and paid a long price and got properly stuck, and afterwards made a terrible rebellion with the auctioneer, who faced it down that it was Sarsfield he had. Howsomever the real Sarsfield was gone, and could never be traced, though he had a funny little mark on his hoof. I’ve made out he was sold to a Dublin jarvey for twenty-five sovereigns, being real smart looking, but he made matches of the car, and put the fear of death on the driver, who passed him to a canal boatman, and bedad! he kicked him into the water. I can’t rightly tell you where he went to next, but, after a long while, Broughal the baker bought him for a matter of five pound; he was in low condition, and, says he, he won’t rise his heels in the bread-cart, and the long and the short of it is that I’m thinking you have the lost Sarsfield snug here in a loose box. The other day I noticed the print on him, and bedad, ye’ve a rare bargain for yer thirty shilling. The Grady stable had terrible high hopes of him, though he was delicate and kep’ back; and all you and Miss Helena has got to do now is to sit tight, and go in and win.”