Dr. Hutton knew more about shoeing a horse than any of the country blacksmiths; and as Polly, in common with many fast trotters, had a trick of throwing her hind–feet inwards, and “cutting” (as it is termed in the art), she liked to have her hind–shoes turned up, and her hoofs rasped in a peculiar manner, which Sweetland alone could execute to her perfect satisfaction.
“Ha, Roger, what have you got here?” said Rufus, having returned from the Hall, and inspected Pollyʼs new shoes, which she was very proud to show him.
“Naethin’ at all, yer honour, but a bit o’ a old anshent goon, as happed to coom in last avening.”
“Ancient gun, man! Why, it is a new breech–loader, only terribly knocked about. I found it all out in London. But there are none in this part of the country. How on earth did you come by it? And what made you spoil it, you stupid, in your forge–fire?”
“Her hanʼt a bin in my varge–vire. If her had, herʼd nivir a coom out alaive. Her hath bin in a wood vire by the look o’ the smo–uk.”
Then Roger Sweetland told Rufus Hutton, as briefly as it is possible for any New Forest man to tell anything, all he knew about it; to which the inquisitive doctor listened with the keenest interest.
“And what will you take for it, Sweetland? Of course it is utterly ruined; but I might stick it up in my rubbish–hole.”
“Iʼll tak whutt I gie vor ‘un; no mare, nor no less. Though be warth a dale mare by the looks ov ‘un.”
“And what did you give for it—twopence?”
“As good a croon–pace as wor iver cooined. Putt un barck in carner, if a bainʼt worth thart.”