Penhallow at once forgot that he wanted to enrage his son. His brows drew together. “A hit, eh? Well! Early days yet. Got his sire’s shoulders?”
“Grand shoulder-blade and forearm. Powerful quarters; hocks well-bent; stifles high and wide,” Raymond responded.
“Back?” Penhallow shot at him. “Out with it! I remember thinking, when I saw his dam—”
“Short above and long below,” interrupted Raymond, the corners of his mouth lifting.
Penhallow grunted. “I’ll take a look at him. Got him out yet?"
“I’ve had him out a couple of weeks now.”
“Where?” Penhallow demanded.
“The Upper Paddock.”
“Good! How many have you put with him?”
“Three others.”