“You 'll not gain much credit by that animal, George,” said Cleremont, as he lighted a cigar.
“He ain't a beauty, sir; he 's low before, and he's cow-hocked behind; but Sir Roger says he's the best blood in Norfolk. Take care, take care, sir! the skittish devil never knows where he 'll send his hind-legs. Steady, Tom, don't check him: why, he's sweating as if he had been round the two-mile course.”
The animal that called for this criticism was a dark chestnut, but so bathed in sweat as to appear almost black. He was one of those cross breeds between the Arab and the western blood, that gain all the beauty of head and crest and straightly formed croup, and yet have length of body and depth of rib denied to the pure Arab. To my thinking he was the most perfect creature I had ever seen, and as he bounded and plunged, there was a supple grace and pliancy about him indescribably beautiful.
George now unloosened the long reins which were attached to the heavy surcingle, and after walking the animal two or three times round the circle, suffered him to go free. As if astonished at his liberty, the young creature stood still for a minute or two, and sniffed the air, and then gave one wild bound and headlong plunge, as though he were going straight into the earth; after which he looked timidly about him, and then walked slowly along in the track worn by the others.
“He's far quieter than the last time I saw him,” said Hotham.
“He's gettin' more sense every day, sir,” replied George; “he don't scratch his head with his hind-leg now, sir, and he don't throw hisself down neither.”
“He has n't given up biting, I see,” said Cleremont.
“No, sir; and they tell me them breed never does; but it's only play, sir.”
“I'll give you six months before you can call him fit to ride, George.”
“My name ain't Spunner, sir, if the young gent as come yesterday don't back him in six weeks' time.”