“Walk him!”
Bullet was now at home again; and he walked as if money was staked on him.
The stranger, whose name I afterwards learned was Peter Ketch, having examined Bullet to his heart’s content, ordered his son Neddy to go and bring up Kit. Neddy soon appeared upon Kit; a well-formed sorrel of the middle size, and in good order. His tout ensemble threw Bullet entirely in the shade; though a glance was sufficient to satisfy any one, that Bullet had the decided advantage of him in point of intellect.
“Why man,” said Blossom, “do you bring such a hoss as that to trade for Bullet? Oh, I see you’re no notion of trading.”
“Ride him off, Neddy!” said Peter.
Kit put off at a handsome lope.
“Trot him back!”
Kit came in at a long, sweeping trot, and stopt suddenly at the crowd.
“Well,” said Blossom, “let me look at him; maybe he’ll do to plough.”
“Examine him!” said Peter, taking hold of the bridle close to the mouth. “He’s nothing but a tacky. He an’t as pretty a horse as Bullet, I know; but he’ll do. Start ’em together for a hundred and fifty mile; and if Kit an’t twenty mile ahead of him at the coming out, any man may take Kit for nothing. But he’s a monstrous mean horse, gentlemen; any man may see that. He’s the scariest horse, too, you ever saw. He won’t do to hunt on, no how. Stranger, will you let Neddy have your rifle to shoot off him? Lay the rifle between his ears, Neddy, and shoot at the blaze in that stump. Tell me when his head is high enough.”