“I say,”—said Dick, and he stopped.
“Yes! What?”
“The horse did not kill his master, did he?”
“Morrison? Poor old chap! No; a bullet from one of those miserable old matchlocks finished him. He was too good a rider for any horse to kill. There, tuck your new toggery away. It looks nice and bright now, but it soon gets tarnished and dull—worse luck. Mind your man takes care of it, so as to make it last as long as it will. We’re obliged to keep up our character. Come out then, and let’s go and see Hulton, to get his opinion about a horse for you. By the way, what is your father?”
“A country doctor.”
“Very rich?”
“Oh, no; he’s comfortably off.”
“Ah, well, then you mustn’t be coming down too hard upon him for a horse. You’ve run up a pretty good bill for him already over your new outfit.”
“Oh, no,” said Dick quickly; “my Aunt Kate put five hundred pounds for me to draw upon to pay for my outfit.”
“What!” cried Wyatt, “you’ve an Aunt Kate with plenty of money who has done that?”