"Fine day after the rain."
"Yes, it is, sir."
"I hope I'm not trespassing?"
"Where was you wanting to go, sir?"
"I thought, as a matter of fact—hullo!"
"Anything wrong, sir?"
Wimsey shifted in the saddle.
"I fancy this girth's slipped a bit. It's a new one." (This was a fact.) "Better have a look."
The man advanced to investigate, but Wimsey had dismounted and was tugging at the strap, with his head under the mare's belly.
"Yes, it wants taking up a trifle. Oh! Thanks most awfully. Is this a short cut to Abbotts Bolton, by the way?"