"He must be purty oul', he's so quite and thractable. Ye kin luck
at his mouth. A don't ondherstand the marks myself."

I opened the horse's mouth. He was just five. I regret to record
that I shook my head gravely, and observed:

"You've had him a long time, Mr. M'Nab?"

"Divil a long. A got him in a swap, as it might be this time yistherday.
There's the resate. An' here's the resate the man got when he bought him
out o' Hillston poun'. Ye can't go beyant a poun' resate."

"Why do you want to get rid of the horse, Mr. M'Nab?"

"Begog, A don't want till git red iv the baste, sich as he is,"
replied M'Nab resentfully. "But A want thon wee shilty, an' A evened a swap
till ye, fur it's a prodistaner thing nor lavin' a man on his feet, so it is."

"See anything wrong with the horse, Steve?" I asked in an undertone.

"Perfect to the eye," murmured Thompson. "Try him a mile, full tilt."

I made the proposal to M'Nab, and he eagerly agreed. At my suggestion,
the half-caste unhitched and tried Fancy, while I mounted the black horse,
and turned him across the plain. I tried him at all paces; but never before
had I met with anything to equal that elastic step and long, easy,
powerful stride. To ride that horse was to feel free, exultant, invincible.
His gallop was like Marching Through Georgia, vigorously rendered
by a good brass band. All that has been written of man's noblest friend--
from the dim, uncertain time when some unknown hand, in a leisure moment,