Checkley. Well, there's sense in that, and I dessay Mr. Undershell won't object to obliging you that far.
Undershell (with reluctance). Oh, with pleasure, if you make a point of it.
[He enters the loose box delicately.
Adams (picking up one of the horse's feet). Now, tell me how this 'ere 'oof strikes you.
Undershell (to himself). That hoof can't; but I'm not so sure about the others. (Aloud, as he inspects it.) Well—er—it seems to me a very nice hoof.
Adams (grimly). I was not arsking your opinion of it as a work of art, sir. Do you see any narrering coming on, or do you not? That's what I should like to get out of you!
Undershell (to himself). Does this man suppose I collect hoofs! However, I'm not going to commit myself. (Aloud.) H'm—well, I—I rather agree with Mr. Checkley.
Checkley. I knew he would! Now you've got it, Adams! I can see Mr. Undershell knows what he's about.
Adams (persistently). But look at this 'ere pastern. You can't deny there's puffiness there. How do you get over that?
Undershell. If the horse is puffy, it's his business to get over it—not mine.