Playing with Fire: A Story of the Soudan War

by James Grant

'That is his hack.'

'The devil! This roadster, then?'

'His pad; no leg must cross it but his own. That is a nag more difficult to find in perfection than even a hunter or roan,' said Buckle, passing a hand admiringly over the silky flank of the animal. 'That bay cob is close on saxteen hands high, bonnie in shape, as ye see, and high-stepping in action, gentle as a wean, and a wean might lead it.'

'That, too, is Mr. Sharpe's, I presume!'

'Yes, sir.'

'By Jove, he is well mounted!' said Roland, in irrepressible wrath, thinking of a certain individual 'on horse-back.'

'That pair of thirteen hands each are Miss Lindsay's.'

'Ah,' thought Roland, a little mollified, 'one of them will mount Annot. Mr. Sharpe dabbles a little in horse-flesh, I have heard?'

'And loses sometimes, Maister Roland.'

'How do you know?'