Myself. A strange adventure that; it is well that Bagg got home alive.
John. He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the fling he got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough wrestling trick. But with respect to the storm, which rose up just in time to save the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not fair, but something Irish and supernatural.
Myself. I dare say he’s right. I have read of witchcraft in the Bible.
John. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doubt that
he could master him, and hand him over to the quarter sessions. He says that a hundred pounds would be no bad thing to be disbanded upon; for he wishes to take an inn at Swanton Morley, keep a cock-pit, and live respectably.
Myself. He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling brother, for I must go back through the bog to Templemore.
CHAPTER XIII.
Groom and Cob—Strength and Symmetry—Where’s the Saddle—The First Ride—No more Fatigue—Love for Horses—Pursuit of Words—Philologist and Pegasus—The Smith—What more, Agrah?—Sassanach Ten Pence.
And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, “I say, young gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning.”
“Why do you wish me to mount him?” said I; “you know; he is dangerous. I saw him fling you off his back only a few days ago.”