Meanwhile Solomon ambles cockily along on Napoleon, with a backward and forward move of his leg to the horse’s action, who ducks and shakes his head and plays good-naturedly with the hounds, as if quite delighted at the idea of what they are going to do. He shows to great advantage. He has not been out for a week, and the coddling and linseeding have given a healthy bloom to his bay coat, and he has taken a cordial ball with a little catechu, and ten grains of opium, to aid his exertions. Solomon, too, shows him off well. Though he hasn’t our friend Dicky Boggledike’s airified manner, like him he is little and light, sits neatly in his saddle, while his long coat-lap partly conceals the want of ribbing home of the handsome but washy horse. His boots and breeehes, drab cords and brown tops, are good, so are his spurs, also his saddle and bridle. There is a difference of twenty per cent, between the looks of a horse in a good, well-made London saddle, and in one of those great, spongy, pulby, puddingy things we see in the country. Again, what a contrast there is between a horse looking through a nice plain-fronted, plain-buckled, thin-reined, town-made bridle, and in one of those gaudy-fronted things, all over buckles, with reins thick enough for traces to the Lord Mayor’s coach. All this adornment, however, is wasted upon fine Billy, who hasn’t got beyond the mane and tail beauties of a horse. Action, strength, stamina, symmetry, are as yet sealed subjects to him. The Major was the man who could enlighten him, if Billy would only let him do it, on the two words for himself and one for Billy principle. Do it he would, too, for he saw it was of no use waiting for Billy to begin. 181m _Original Size_ “Nice ‘oss that,” now observed the Major casually, nodding towards Nap. “Yarse,” replied Billy, looking him over. “That’s the o-o-oss I showed you in the stable.” “Is it?” observed Billy, who didn’t recognize him. “Ought to be at M-m-melton, that oss,” observed the Major. “Why isn’t he?” asked Billy, in the innocence of his heart. “Don’t know,” replied the Major carelessly, with a toss of his head; “don’t know. The fact is, I’m idle—no one to send with him—too old to go myself—haryers keep me at home—year too short to do all one has to do—see what a length he is—ord bless us he’d go over Ashby p-p-pastures like a comet.”