“Pair of stirrups, your honour. Stirrups help us to get on, so does discretion; to get off, ditto discretion. Men without stirrups look fine, ride bold, tire soon: men without discretion cut dash, but knock up all of a crack. Stirrups—but what sinnifies? Could say much more, your honour, but don’t love chatter.”
“Your simile is ingenious enough, if not poetical,” said Walter; “but it does not hold good to the last. When a man falls, his discretion should preserve him; but he is often dragged in the mud by his stirrups.”
“Beg pardon—you’re wrong,” quoth the Corporal, nothing taken by surprise; “spoke of the new-fangled stirrups that open, crank, when we fall, and let us out of the scrape.” [Note: Of course the Corporal does not speak of the patent stirrup: that would be an anachronism.]
Satisfied with this repartee, the Corporal now (like an experienced jester) withdrew to leave its full effect on the admiration of his master. A little before sunset the two travellers renewed their journey.
“I have loaded the pistols, Sir,” said the Corporal, pointing to the holsters on Walter’s saddle. “It is eighteen miles off to the next town—will be dark long before we get there.”
“You did very right, Bunting, though I suppose there is not much danger to be apprehended from the gentlemen of the highway.”
“Why the Landlord do say the revarse, your honour,—been many robberies lately in these here parts.”
“Well, we are fairly mounted, and you are a formidable-looking fellow, Bunting.”
“Oh! your honour,” quoth the Corporal, turning his head stiffly away, with a modest simper, “You makes me blush; though, indeed, bating that I have the military air, and am more in the prime of life, your honour is well nigh as awkward a gentleman as myself to come across.”
“Much obliged for the compliment!” said Walter, pushing his horse a little forward—the Corporal took the hint and fell back.