"Well, to quote Madame de Staël," replied Willoughby;
"he abuses a man's privilege of being ugly."

"Moreover, he has left undone a thing that he ought to have done," I rejoined.
"He ought to be taking a spell of carrying that mare. And pat he comes,
like the catastrophe of the old comedy"...

"'Day, chaps," said Rufus, as he joined us. "Keep on your pins, you beggar"--
and he drove both spurs into his mare's shrinking flanks.
"Grey mare belongs to you, boss--don't she?--an' the black moke
with the Roman nose follerin'? I was thinkin' we might manage
to knock up some sort o' swap. Now this mare's a Patriarch, she is;
and you might n't think it. I won this here saddle with her
at a bit of a meetin' las' week, an' rode her my own self--an' that's
oc'lar demonster. I tell you, if this here mare had a week spell,
you could n't hold her; an' she'd go a hundred mile between sunrise an' sunset,
at the same bat. Yes, boss; it's the breed does it. I seen some good horses
about the King, but swelp me Gawd I never seen a patch on this mare;
an' you might n't think it to look at her jist now. Fact is, boss,
she wants a week or a fortnit spell. Could n't we work up
some sort o' swap for that ole black moke o' yours, with the big head?
If I got a trifle o' cash to boot, I would n't mind slingin' in this saddle,
an' takin' yours. Now, boss, don't be a (adj.) fool."

"To tell you the truth," I replied, "that black horse has carried a pack
so long that he's about cooked for saddle. But he does me right enough."

"Then I'll tell you what I'll do!" exclaimed Rufus impulsively.
"Look here! At a word! I'll go you an even swap for that little weed