Crimmins shifted the cud again to hide his astonishment at Garrison's
sudden _savoir-faire_.

"She's wicked, sir. Bought for the missus, but she ain't broken yet."

"She hasn't been handled right. Her mouth's hard, but her temper's even.
I'll ride her," said Garrison shortly.

"Have to wear blinkers, sir."

"No, I won't. Saddle her. Hurry up. Shorten the stirrup. There, that's
right. Stand clear."

Crimmins eyed Garrison narrowly as he mounted. He was quite prepared to
run with a clothes-basket to pick up the remains. But Garrison was up
like a feather, high on the filly's neck, his shoulders hunched. The
minute he felt the saddle between his knees he was at home again after a
long, long absence. He had come into his birthright.

The filly quivered for a moment, laid back her ears, and then was off.

"Cripes!" ejaculated the veracious Crimmins, as wide-eyed he watched the
filly fling gravel down the drove, "'e's got a seat like Billy Garrison
himself. 'E can ride, that kid. An' 'e knows 'orse-flesh. Blimy if 'e
don't! If Garrison weren't down an' out I'd be ready to tyke my Alfred
David it were 'is bloomin' self. An' I thought 'e was a dub! Ho,
yuss--me!"

Moralizing on the deceptiveness of appearances, Crimmins fortified
himself with another slab of cut-plug.