“Not a penny less than seventy,” replied the dragoon.
“Well, then, I shall take him at that Pounds?”
“Guineas. Call down to-morrow forenoon at Piershill, and you shall have delivery. Now, Miss Bogle, what do you say to a canter on the sands?”
I took my leave rather satisfied than otherwise with the transaction. Edith evidently took a warm interest in my welfare, and her suggestion as to future expeditions was quite enchanting. Seventy guineas, to be sure, was a deal of money, but then it was something to be assured of safety for life and limb. On the street I encountered Anthony Whaup.
“Well, old fellow,” quoth Anthony, “how are you getting on? Pounding away at drill, eh?”
“Not yet.”
“Faith, you had better look sharp about it, then. I’ve been down twice at Canonmills of a morning, and I can tell you the facings are no joke. Have you got a horse yet?”
“Yes; a regular dragoon charger—and you?”
“A beast from Wordsworth. He’s been out regularly with the squadron for the last ten years; so it is to be presumed he knows the manœuvres. If not, I’m a spilt yeoman!”