“Do you really think so, Roper?” said I.
“Think so! I know it,” replied the dragoon. “Never while you live trust yourself to the tender mercies of a livery stable. It’s a wegular maxim in the army. Pray, are you a good rider?”
“Pretty—fairish—tolerable. That is, I can ride.”
“Ah! I see—want of practice merely—eh?”
“Just so.”
“Well, then, it’s a lucky thing that I’ve seen you. I have just the sort of animal you want—a wegular-bred horse, sound as a roach, quiet as a lamb, and quite up to the cavalry movements. Masaniello will suit your weight to an ounce, and you shall have him for seventy guineas.”
“That’s a very long price, Roper!”
“For Masaniello? I assure you he’s as cheap as dirt. I would not sell him for twice the sum: only, you see, we are limited in our number, and my father insists upon my keeping other two which he bred himself. If you like to enter Masaniello for the races, I’ll insure your winning the cup.”
“Oh do, Mr M’Whirter, take Mr Roper’s advice!” said Edith. “Masaniello is such a pretty creature, and so quiet! And then, after the week is over, you know you can come and ride with us.”
“Won’t you take sixty, Roper?”