"Well, I don't know," you say frankly; "I'm no judge. I don't know anything about a horse."
For once your master loses his self-possession, and stares unreservedly. "Child," he says, "I never, never before saw anybody in this ring who didn't know all about a horse."
"Well, but I really don't, you know."
"No, but nobody ever says so. Now just hear this new pupil instruct me."
The new pupil, who thinks a riding habit should be worn over two or three skirts, and is consequently sitting with the aerial elegance of a feather bed, is riding with her snaffle rein, the curb tied on her horse's neck, and is clasping it by the centre, allowing the rest to hang loose, so that Clifton, supposing that she means to give him liberty to browse, is looking for grass among the tan. Not finding it, he snorts occasionally, whereupon she calls him "poor thing," and tells him that "it is a warm day, and that he should rest, so he should!"
"Your reins are too long," says your master.
"Do you mean that they are too long, or that I am holding them so as to make them too long," she inquires, in a precise manner.
"They are right enough. Our saddlers know their business. But you are holding them so that you might as well have none. Shorten them, and make him bring his head up in its proper place."
"But I think it's cruel to treat him so, when he's tired, poor thing! I always hold my reins in the middle when I'm driving, and my horse goes straight enough. This one seems dizzy. He goes round and round."
"He wouldn't if he were in harness with two shafts to keep his head straight"—