“Dycer resumed, ‘Seven ten, for Mr. Moriarty. Going for seven ten—a cruel sacrifice—there’s action for you—playful beast.’ Here the devil had stumbled and nearly killed a basket-woman with two children.
“‘Eight,’ said I, with a loud voice.
“‘Eight pounds, quite absurd,’ said Dycer, almost rudely; ‘a charger like that for eight pounds—going for eight pounds—going—nothing above eight pounds—no reserve, gentlemen, you are aware of that. They are all, as it were, his Majesty’s stud—no reserve whatever—last time, eight pounds—gone.’
“Amid a very hearty cheer from the mob, God knows why, but a Dublin mob always cheers—I returned accompanied by a ragged fellow, leading my new purchase after me with a hay halter.
“‘What is the meaning of those letters?’ said I, pointing to a very conspicuous G. R., with sundry other enigmatical signs, burned upon the animal’s hind quarter.
“‘That’s to show he was a po-lis,’ said the fellow with a grin; ‘and when ye ride with ladies, ye must turn the decoy side.”
“The auspicious morning at last arrived; and, strange to say, that the first waking thought was of the unlucky day that ushered in my yachting excursion, four years before. Why this was so I cannot pretend to guess: there was but little analogy in the circumstances, at least so far as anything had then gone. ‘How is Marius?’ said I to my servant, as he opened my shutters. Here let me mention that a friend of the Kildare Street club had suggested this name from the remarkably classic character of my steed’s countenance; his nose, he assured me, was perfectly Roman.
“‘Marius is doing finely, sir, barring his cough, and the trifle that ails his hind legs.’
“‘He’ll carry me quietly, Simon; eh?’
“‘Quietly! I’ll warrant he’ll carry you quietly, if that’s all.’