"Well, look here," said Billy devoutly--"I hope Gord'll strike me stark,
stiff, stone dead off o' this saddle if the horse has any tricks,
or anythin' wrong with him, no more nor the man in the moon.
Onna bright. There! I've swore it."

"Well, the mare is as good as gold," I reiterated. "She's one among a hundred.
Call her Fancy."

"The horse's name's Clayopathra," rejoined M'Nab; "an' by gog ye'll fine him
wan out iv a thousan'. A chris'ned him Clayopathra, fur A thought
till run him."

"A very good name too," I replied affably. "I should be sorry to change it."

And I never did change it, though, often afterward, men of clerkly attainments
took me aside and kindly pointed out what they conceived to be a blunder.
I have dwelt, perhaps tediously, upon this swap; my excuses are--first,
that, having made few such good bargains during the days of my vanity,
the memory is a pleasant one; and, second, that the horse will necessarily play
a certain part in these memoirs.

"Well, we'll be pushin' an, Billy," said M'Nab; "the sun's gittin' low.
An' you needn't tail me up enny fardher," he added, turning to Rufus.
"Loaf an these people the night. A man thravellin' his lone,
an' nat a shillin' in his pocket!"

"O, go an' bark up a tree, you mongrel!" replied the war-material,
with profusion of adjective. "Fat lot o' good tailin' you up!
A man that sets down to his dinner without askin' another man