“Oh! he'll never do for you,” exclaimed Lawless. “I know the horse well; they call him Blacksmith, because the man who bred him was named Smith; he lives down in Lincolnshire, and breeds lots of horses; but they are none of them, at least none that I have seen, what I call the right sort; don't you buy him,—he's got too much daylight under him to suit you.”
“Too long in the pasterns to carry weight,” urged Curtis.
“Rather inclined to be cow-hocked,” chimed in Lawless.
“Not ribbed home,” remarked Curtis.
“Too narrow across the loins,” observed Lawless.
“He'll never carry flesh,” continued Curtis.
“It's useless to think of his jumping; he'll never make a hunter,” said Lawless.
“Only hear them,” interrupted a tall, fashionable-looking young man, with a high forehead and a profusion of light, curling hair; “now those two fellows are once off, it's all up with anything like rational conversation for the rest of the evening.”
“That's right, Archer, put the curb on 'em; we might as well be in Tattersall's yard at once,” observed another of the company, addressing the last speaker.
“I fear it's beyond my power,” replied Archer; “they've got such an incurable trick of talking equine scandal, and taking away the characters of their neighbours' horses, that nobody can stop them unless it is Stephen Wilford.”