“Saw it, sir! that’s very clear. I say, that ‘ere horse knows you!” and the dealer put his finger to his nose.
“Quite right to be mum! He was bred by an old customer of mine—famous rider!—Mr. Beaufort. Aha! that’s where you knew him, I s’pose. Were you in his stables?”
“Hem—I knew Mr. Beaufort well.”
“Did you? You could not know a better man. Well, I shall be very glad to engage you, though you seem by your hands to be a bit of a gentleman—eh? Never mind; don’t want you to groom!—but superintend things. D’ye know accounts, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Character?”
Philip repeated to Mr. Stubmore the story he had imparted to Mr. Clump. Somehow or other, men who live much with horses are always more lax in their notions than the rest of mankind. Mr. Stubmore did not seem to grow more distant at Philip’s narration.
“Understand you perfectly, my man. Brought up with them ‘ere fine creturs, how could you nail your nose to a desk? I’ll take you without more palaver. What’s your name?”
“Philips.”
“Come to-morrow, and we’ll settle about wages. Sleep here?”