“Now for the stables,” said Wyatt. “Better be on your guard, for some of the horses are rather playful with their heels.”
Dick nodded, and followed his conductor into the plainest and cleanest stable he had ever seen. Here they came upon several syces or grooms, whose task it was to give the horses’ coats the satin-like gloss they displayed; for the drivers and gunners of the Honourable Company’s corps were far too great men to run down their own horses, or do much more than superintend the cleaning of their own accoutrements.
“It’s different to being at home,” said Wyatt laughingly; “and we want the men to fight, not for grooms and servants. They’re a bit spoiled, but the niggers are plentiful, and we let them do the work.”
Dick had seen the stables at a cavalry barracks once, and admired the horses; but these were nothing to the beautiful, sleek creatures he saw here. Wild-looking, large-eyed, abundant of mane and tail, perfect beauties without exception, but certainly playful as the lieutenant had said, the entrance of the visitors seeming to be the signal for the long line to begin tossing their heads, rattling their halters, and turning their beautiful arched necks to gaze at the new-comers before snorting, squealing, and making ineffectual attempts to bite at their fellows—ineffectual, for they could not reach them.
“What do you think of them?” said Wyatt, smiling at his companion’s display of excited appreciation. “Will they do?”
“Do!” cried Dick enthusiastically; “why, there isn’t one that would not make a magnificent charger.”
“Bating temper, you’re quite right. Arab stallions, every one. But you’ve seen them before.”
“Only once, at a distance, and then they were going fast.”
“Yes, we do go pretty fast,” said Wyatt quietly; “the men on the limbers have to sit pretty tight in their leather slings. Seen enough?”
“No,” cried Dick; “one could never see enough of such horses as these.”