“But this ere Mr. Catapult be a good un, bean’t he—a regler crunsher?”
“O, I believe you, my boy: his look’s enough for some of em.”
“I spoase he be dear?” (Another wink at Mrs. Bumpkin.)
“They’re all dear,” said Horatio; “some of em are dear because their fees are high; and some of em would be dear at a gift, but I’m too young to know much about it.”
“Now hark at that,” said Joe; “like that air old horse o’ Morris’.”
“Hold thee tongue, Joe, I tell ee, putten thy spoke in; does thee think the Queen ’as old ’orses in her stable? It’s merit, I tell ee—ain’t it, Mr. Jigger?”
“Merit, sir; I believe it’s merit.” And thus in pleasant conversation the evening passed merrily away, until the clock striking nine warned the company that it was time to retire.
A bright, brisk frosty morning succeeded, and a substantial breakfast of bacon, eggs, fresh butter, and home-made bread, at seven o’clock, somewhat astonished and delighted the youthful Horatio; and then the old horse, with plenty of hair about his heels, was brought round with the gig. And Mr. Bumpkin and his guest got up and took their seats. The old Market Town was about seven miles off, and the road lay through the most picturesque scenery of the county. To ride on such
a pleasant morning through such a country almost made one think that swearing affidavits was the most pleasing occupation of life. It was the first time Horatio had ever ridden in a gig: the horse went a good old market pace, and the beautiful sunshine, lovely scenery, and crisp air produced in his youthful bosom a peculiarly charming and delightful sense of exhilaration. He praised the country and the weather and the horse, and asked if it was what they called a thoroughbred.
“Chit!” said Bumpkin, “thoroughbred! So be I thoroughbred—did thee ever see thoroughbred wi’ ’air on his ’eels?’