“I've got a pair here, sir; if you'll step this way I'll put them on for you,” said the man whom I had heard addressed as “James,”—adding, in a lower tone, as he buckled them on, “for Heaven's sake, young gentleman, don't mount that mare unless you're a first-rate rider.”
“Why, what's the matter with her? does she kick?” inquired I.
“She'll try and pitch you off, if possible, and if she can't do that, she'll bolt with you, and then the Lord have mercy upon you!”
This was encouraging, certainly!
“You are an honest fellow, James,” replied I; “and I am much obliged to you. Ride her I must, my honour is at stake, but I'll be as careful as I can, and, if I come back safe, you shall have half a crown.”
“Thank you, sir,” was the reply, “I shall be glad enough to see you come back in any other way than on a shutter, without the money.”
Of a truth, the race of Job's comforters is not yet extinct, thought I, as I turned to look for Coleman, who had been up to this moment employed in superintending the operation of saddling Punch, and now made his appearance, leading that renowned steed by the bridle.
“Why, Fairlegh, you are not going to ride that vicious brute to be sure; even Lawless won't mount her, and he does not care what he rides in general.”
“Nevermind about Lawless,” said I, assuming an air of confidence I was very far from feeling; “she won't eat me, I daresay.”
“I don't know that,” rejoined Coleman, regarding Mad Bess with a look of horror; “Cumberland, don't let him mount her.”