“Why, Dick man, where’s the old horse?” said Joe, looking as if I had come from the moon.
“Oh, I walked,” said I, “I prefer it, when I have time.”
“Come own it, Dick,” said he, “thou wast ashamed of the old horse’s long rough coat—I didn’t think thou hadst been such a dandy.”
“Upon my honour it was nothing of the sort,” said I, glad enough that he wasn’t on the right scent.
“And how did you get along with one of our young squires?” said he.
“Oh, he offered me a lift,” said I; and then I told him my story.
“Well, you always seem to fall on your legs,” said he; “who are they with him?”
“Oxford scholars, I think,” said I, “from their talk; but I didn’t get on much with them, they’re not so free spoken as he is. But what are you about here, Joe?”
“Oh, helping the umpires to measure out the course for the cart-horse race; look, there are the flags right along for half a mile, and the finish is to be up there by the side of the Castle, for all the folk to see. But come along, for I must be after the umpires; I see they want me.”