"He's quiet enough," said Ivor. "Have a good look at him. He's a bit different tempered from The Savage."
"I hope so, for your sake," retorted Glen smiling, "or you stand a very fair chance of being killed."
"That's something to look forward to on Saturday night," Ivor answered.
Glen went up to the horse and examined him well, passing his hand over him, carefully taking in his points. It was difficult to find fault with Barellan. If there was one it was his hocks, which were large and rather unsightly, but there was nothing wrong with them. They were rather low down, in the greyhound style. He had a splendid back and quarters, good shoulders, neck and chest, a shapely head and a good forehead, and fine eyes. He stood over sixteen hands.
"What do you think of him?" Ivor asked.
"He's a good-looking horse. He ought to gallop. He's built for it," replied Glen.
"So he can. He's the best I have by a long way, although some people prefer Flash."
"I don't," said Glen promptly. "He's in the Melbourne Cup, isn't he?"
"Yes, in both Cups," said the trainer.
"Will he go for them both?"