“Quiet, sir! why, he’s like a lamb. Bit playful sometimes, but no more vice in him than there is in an oyster. Mornin’, sir.”
The man touched his hat and went off, leaving Lomax and me with the horse, which looked enormous then.
Lomax strode round the animal, examining it, and making remarks as he went on.
“Very well groomed,” he said. “Saw your old friend Magglin before breakfast. Good legs. Like to get taken on again, he says. Tail wants topping—too long. Lucky for him he didn’t get before the magistrates. Doctor won’t have him again. Very nice little nag, but too small for service. I told him that all he was fit for was to enlist; some sharp drill-sergeant might knock him into shape in time. He’s no use as he is. Now, then, ready?”
“Yes,” I said shrinkingly, “I suppose so.”
“That’s right,” cried Lomax, and, lifting up the flap of the saddle, he busied himself, as I supposed, tightening the girths, but all at once they dropped to the ground, and, with the rein over his arm, Lomax lifted off the saddle and placed it upon the hedge.
“Now then,” he cried, “come along and I’ll give you a leg up.”
“But you’ve taken the saddle off.”
“Of course I have. I’m going to teach you how to ride.”
“Without a saddle or stirrups?”