“Nice ‘oss, that,” repeats the Major, nodding again.
“Yarse, he looks like a nice ‘orse;” replied Billy, which is really as much as any man can say under the circumstances.
“That ‘oss should have won the D-d-d-derby in Nobbler’s year,” observed the Major; “only they d-d-drugged him the night before starting, and he didn’t get half round the c-c-co-course,” which was true enough, only it wasn’t owing to any drugging, for he wasn’t worth the expense.
“That ‘oss should be in Le-le-le-leieestershire,” observed the Major. “He has all the commandin’ s-s-s-statur requisite to make large fences look s-s-s-small, and the s-s-s-smoothest, oiliest action i-ma-ma-maginable.”
“Yarse;” replied Billy, wondering what pleasure there was in looking at a lot of blankets and hoods upon horses—which was about all he could see.
“He should be at Me-me-melton,” observed the Major; still harping on Napoleon—“wasted upon haryers,” added he.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, not caring where he was.
The Major then took a nod at the Weaver, who, as if in aid of her master’s design, now stood bolt upright, listening, as it were, instead of reeling from side to side.
“That’s a sw-sw-swe-e-t mare,” observed the Major, wishing he was rid of her. “I don’t know whether I would rather have her or the horse (Nap);” which was true enough, though he knew which he would like to sell Billy.
“You’ll remember the g-g-gray, the whi-white,” continued he; looking on at the old stager against the wall. “That’s the ‘oss I rode with the Peer, on the Castle day, and an undeniable g-g-good one he is;” but knowing that he was not a young man’s horse—moreover, not wanting to sell him, he returned to Napoleon, whose praises he again sounded considerably. Billy, however, having heard enough about him, and wanting to get into the house to the ladies, drew his attention to Bull-dog, now almost enveloped in blankets and straw; but the Major, not feeling inclined to waste any words on him either, replied, “That he was only a servant’s ‘oss.” He, however, spoke handsomely of Golden-drop, declaring he was the fastest trotter in England, perhaps in Europe, perhaps in the world, and would be invaluable to a D-d-doctor, or any man who wanted to get over the ground. And then, thinking he had said about enough for a beginning, it all at once occurred to him that Billy’s feet must be wet, and though our friend asserted most confidently that they were not, as all townsmen do assert who walk about the country in thin soles, the Major persisted in urging him to go in and change, which Billy at length reluctantly assented to do.