“Cert’ny, sir. Get a bit slack they do after a few miles canter. Steady, my lad. Nice horse, sir, that he is,” continued the postboy, who was smooth civility itself. “Must be a pleasure to ride him.”
“Yes,” said Mellersh, as the man went on talking and buckling with his head supporting the saddle-flap. “You don’t get such a nag as that for a leader, eh?”
“No, sir, not likely. Fifteen pounders is about our cut. That one’s worth a hundred. All of a sweat he is, and yet not a bit blown. You’ve come fast, sir.”
“Yes; at a good rattling gallop nearly all the ten miles.”
“’Leven, sir, a good ’leven, and a bad road.”
“Is it, though?” said Mellersh quietly, as he prepared to mount again.
“All that, sir.”
“Postboys’ miles, eh?”
“No, sir; honest miles. We’d charge twelve. Wouldn’t you like them stirrups shortened two or three holes?” said the man eagerly.
“No, thanks; no. I’m an old soldier, and we always ride with a long stirrup. Matter of use. Shall we catch them, do you think?”