Speechless with indignation, I seized the poker and split—not Mr. Naggett’s head, but a burning coal in the very centre of the grate, without farther reply. This coolest of butchers proceeded unhesitatingly:—
“It’s a pity to see a gentleman undermounted, specially in a country like this: so dangerous too! Why, sir, all the worst falls as I’ve known take place down here in our Soakington district, have been entirely owing to gentlemen riding horses below their weight. There was Squire Overend, only last season, got a little thorough-bred weed he called Happy Joe, as he swore nothing could touch. No more they couldn’t when the ground was light; but look what happened. There came a splash of wet, and the ground up to our girths, just as we’ve got it now, and likely to have it for the next six months; and Happy Joe, he turns a complete somersault over a stile the Squire puts him at, and falls on to his rider with a squelch, breaking the cantle of his own saddle into shivers, and inflicting such severe internal injuries on Squire Overend, that he has never been out hunting since, and all from obstinacy—sheer obstinacy, I call it; for I told the Squire myself how it would be, from the first.”
Somewhat discouraged, I admit, by the ghastly catastrophe of Mr. Overend, I began to think it was just possible that Apple-Jack might not be so good as he looked, and that perhaps it might be wise to purchase a horse or two more accustomed to the country, and with a little more power.
Mr. Naggett, who never took his clear blue eyes off my face, seemed to read my thoughts intuitively, and proceeded with more than usual volubility:—
“There’s a friend of mine, sir, got a horse, that I should say was just about your mark, and would carry you as I can see you like to be carried. I had him in price all last season myself, but money couldn’t buy him then; for my friend he was an out-and-out sporting chap, and could ride too! But he’s been and got married since, and gone to live in Drury Lane for good and all; so he’s no more use for a hunter now, than a cow has for a side-pocket, or a pig for a frilled-shirt. What a horse he is, to be sure!—dark-brown, tan muzzle, not a speck of white about him; up to fourteen stone; by Ratcatcher, out of Sly Puss by Mousetrap, and Mousetrap, you remember, was by Grimalkin, and the sire of Whittington, Cat’s-cradle and a many good ones. I know all about him, and have done since he was a foal. My friend he bought him off of the farmer that bred him.”
“Why, Ratcatcher has been covering at the Castle for years,” I replied, rather congratulating myself upon having Mr. Naggett “out;” “and Sly Puss never belonged to anybody but the Earl!”
“Well, sir,” retorted he, “and that’s exactly the farmer I mean. A very respectable farmer I call him too, and one that farms his own land, which is more than can be said for a good many of them. Talk of jumping, I wish you could only see this nag jump!”
There is something about the discussion of horseflesh in front of a big fire, with a cigar in his mouth, that disposes a man unaccountably to buy. Knowing I couldn’t hunt for six weeks, what did I want with another horse?
“Why should I not?” I rashly inquired. “I might look at him, at any rate. Where is he to be seen?”
“Well, sir, he’s at my place now,” replied Mr. Naggett, adding, with an air of charming frankness. “The fact is, I’ve got him to keep for my friend, who is a cousin of my wife’s, and I’ve got the riding of him for his corn. If it wasn’t that my business won’t allow me to hunt as much as I should like, I’d buy him myself, particularly considering the price.”