Peter was a sweeper who was always on the look-out for an excuse. He was, so to speak, chained to that broom so many hours a day, and if he had been a galley slave, and the broom an oar, it is morally certain that he would have been beaten with many stripes, for he would have left off rowing whenever he could.
“Well, squire,” he said, laying his hands one over the other on the top of the broom-handle.
“Well, Peter. How’s the horse?”
“Grinding his corn, and enjoying himself,” said Peter. “He’s like you: a lucky one—plenty to eat and nothing to do.”
“Don’t you take him out for exercise?” said Dexter.
“Course I do. So do you go out for exercise.”
“Think I could ride?” said Dexter.
“Dersay you could, if you could hold on.”
“I should like to try.”
“Go along with you!”