“Do you feel nervous, M’Whirter?” asked Hosier, a friend who was backing me rather heavily. “You look a little white in the face.”
“To tell you the truth—I do.”
“That’s bad. Had you not better take a glass of brandy?”
“Not a bad idea;” and I took it.
“That’s right. Now canter him about a little, and you’ll soon get used to it.”
I shall carefully avoid having any occasion to make use of my dear-bought experience. I felt remarkably sheepish as I rode out upon the course, and heard the observations of the crowd.
“And wha’s yon in the saumon-coloured jacket?”
“It’ll be him they ca’ Chaffinch.”
“Na, man—yon chield wad make twa o’ Chaffinch. He’s but a feather-wecht o’ a cratur.”
“Wow, Jess! but that’s a bonnie horse!”