“What does he ask?” I inquired, walking as it were open-eyed into the pitfall prepared for me.
Mr. Naggett looked me over from top to toe, as if I had been a prize ox. Probably he was making a mental computation of my soft-headedness. I am afraid I looked very much like a fool, for he replied boldly—
“One hundred and twenty sovereigns; take him as he stands; no questions asked; and dirt-cheap at the money.”
“How old is he?” was naturally my next inquiry. “Is he quiet to ride?” I added; “and thoroughly temperate with hounds? Also, is he fit to go at present? and does your wife’s cousin warrant him sound?”
“Come up and see him, sir! Come up and see him!” was the only reply Mr. Naggett could be brought to give. “My business will take me away all to-morrow and the next day; but say Saturday, sir. You know my little place. Any time on Saturday I shall be at your service, and the horse too. Ride him, lark him, have him galloped, see him jump! If you can get him into a difficulty, I’ll give him to you—at least my wife’s cousin will. You may take my word for it, that if once you lay your leg over him, he’ll never go out of your stable again!”
And Mr. Naggett, suddenly remembering a very particular engagement, vanished incontinently, after wishing me an exceedingly civil “good-night.”
CHAPTER IV
TOM TURNBULL
The hasty departure of Mr. Naggett seemed to produce a corresponding effect of drowsiness on Miss Lushington—an unusual weakness, to which I am bound to admit she was by no means subject. Like the Roman vestals, she never seemed tempted to quit her post, nor desirous of flinching from the duty of keeping alive the sacred fire, represented in her sanctuary by a blazing heap of coals through the day, and a jet of gas continually flaring from a pipe above the tap during the small hours towards morning. Now, however, she yawned most unreservedly, and hinted freely on the propriety of “shutting up for the night.” Perhaps, after the departure of the flash butcher, everything seemed by comparison tame and insipid. As I shall not have occasion to refer to Mr. Naggett again, I may here mention that as soon as I was able to move about, I did go to inspect the famous horse by Ratcatcher, out of Sly Puss by Mousetrap, and found him a good-looking animal enough,—large, strong, well-bred, and a fine goer, with many hunting-like qualities about him; but, on the other hand, by no means likely to emerge blameless from the ordeal of a veterinary surgeon’s examination, being indeed a little suspicious in one eye, very queer about the hocks, and with a curious catch in his windpipe, which Mr. Naggett triumphantly quoted as a proof of the excellence of his lungs, but which to my fancy seemed uncommonly like the respiration of a prospective whistler.
I need hardly observe that I declined the proprietorship of this high-bred animal upon any terms whatever, although I was offered him as a swap, as a contingent reversion, and as a temporary investment: nay, so anxious was Mr. Naggett to accommodate me, and so liberal in his professions, that I was compelled to decline very strenuously the purchase of him at a considerable reduction on his original price, with half the money down, and my bill at three months for the remainder.