“I mean exactly among the mad ’uns. No, I wouldn’t say mad, but as vicious—and worse, mayhap.”
“It does not matter much what we think, either of us; but I know what another fellow would have done long ago, but I could not bring myself to do that. I have thought it over often, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t.”
“Well, then, it ain’t no great consequence,” said Harry, and he tightened his saddle-girth a hole or two—“no great consequence; but I couldn’t a’ put a finger to that—mind; for I think the upperworks is as sound as any, only there’s many a devil beside mad ’uns. I give it in to you there.”
“And what do you advise me to do?—this sort of thing is dreadful,” said Charles.
“I was going to say, I think the best thing to be done is just to leave all that business, d’ye mind, to me.”
Harry mounted, and leaning on his knee, he said—
“I think I have a knack, if you leave it to me. Old Pipeclay doesn’t think I have any reason to play false.”
“Rather the contrary,” said Charles, who was attentively listening.
“No interest at all,” pursued Harry, turning his eyes towards the distant knoll of Torston, and going on without minding Charles’ suggestion—
“Look, now, that beast ’ll follow my hand as sweet as sugary-candy, when you’d have nothing but bolting and baulking, and rearin’, or worse. There’s plenty o’ them little French towns or German—and don’t you be botherin’ your head about it; only do just as I tell ye, and I’ll take all in hands.”