“You 're a good fellow, George, to think of this,” said I. “Do you know where we 're going?”
“That's what I was going to tell you, sir. We are going to the Bois de Cambre, and there's two of our men gone on with hurdles, to set them up in the cross alleys of the wood, and we 're to come on 'em unawares, you see.”
“Then why don't you give me Father Tom or Hunger-ford?”
“The master would n't have either. He said, 'A child of five years old could ride the Irish horse;' and as for Hungerford, he calls him a circus horse.”
“But who knows if Blossom will take a fence?”
“I'll warrant she'll go high enough; how she'll come down, and where, is another matter. Only don't you go a-pullin' at her, ride her in the snaffle, and as light as you can. Face her straight at what she's got to go over, and let her choose her own pace.”
“I declare I don't see how this is a fair trial of my riding, George. Do you?”
“Well, it is, and it isn't,” said he, scratching his head. “You might have a very tidy hand and a nice seat, and not be able to ride the mare; but then, sir, you see, if you have the judgment to manage her coolly, and not rouse her temper too far, if you can bring her to a fence, and make her take off at a proper distance, and fly it, never changing her stride nor balk, why then he'll see you can ride.”
“And if she rushes, or comes with her chest to a bank, or if—as I think she will—she refuses her fence, rears, and falls back, what then?”
“Then I think the mornin's sport will be pretty nigh over,” growled he; as though I had suggested something personally offensive to him.