“Talking of heavy wet, puts me in mind of coming down with the dust. When are you going to perform that operation in regard to the Windsor Steeple-chase?” inquired the cornet, surlily; who, not having anything witty to reply to his assailant, substituted instead the most unpleasant topic he could select.
“That is soon answered,” was the rejoinder; “whenever you’ll make a fresh match between the horses, and give Rattletrap a chance of showing Teacaddy the way home, when he’s not been pricked in shoeing by a confounded blacksmith.”
“Oh! if that’s all, you may hand over the cash to-morrow morning,” returned the dragoon; “the mare’s in first-rate order, and I’m game to back her for a match, hurdle-race, steeple-chase, or what you will,” was the confident reply.
“Ah! is it a steeple-chase now, ye’re talking of?” interrupted O’Brien, filling himself a tumbler of Claret; “sure an’ I’ve got a horse I’d be proud to enter, if it wasn’t jist putting me hand in your pockets and taking the money out of ’em; for if he’s in the race, I’d name the winner before they start.”
“He must be a wonderful animal, Captain,” observed the first guardsman; “high-pressure, express train style of quadruped, eh?”
“Furnished with a screw-propeller, more likely,” added his companion, ironically.
“Faith, an’ ye’re wrong there entirely: it’s little of the screw ye’ll find about Broth-of-a-boy. Talk about railroads, indeed, I never knew what flying was till the day I first galloped him in the Phoenix Park. I only wish I’d had him in Spain, when I served with the legion of Sir De Lacy Evans; it isn’t overtaken and kilt entirely by their blackguard dragoons I’d have been then—though it’s little but hard blows and hard swearing they got out of me, as it was, the Lord be praised!”
“Hear, hear! a story, a story!”
“Military reminiscences of Captain O’Brien! order, order!”
“Silence for the noble anecdote!”