Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil BlasLever, Charles
General
Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas
Lever, Charles
Ireland -- Fiction
"An't she a streak of lightnin', and no mistake?" said he, gazing on
her with rapture. "An't she glibber to move nor a wag of a comet's
tail, when he 's taking a lark round the moon? There's hocks! there's
pasterns! Show me a gal with ankles like 'em, and look at her, here!
An't she a-made for sittin' on?"
I entered into all his raptures. She was faultless in every
point,--save, perhaps, that in looking at you she would throw her eye
backwards, and show a little bit too much of the white. I remarked this
to the ostler.
"The only fault she has," said he, shaking his head; "she mistrusts a
body always, and so she's eternally a lookin' back, and a gatherin' up
her quarters, and a holdin' of her tail tight in; but for that, she's
a downright regular beauty, and for stride and bottom there ain't her
equal nowhere."
"Her late master was unlucky, I've heard," said I, insinuatingly.
"He was so far unlucky that he could n't sit his beast over a torrent
and a down leap. He would hold her in, and she won't bear it at a
spring, and so she flung him before she took the leap; and when _she_
lit, 't other side, with her head high and her hind legs under her, _he_
was a sittin' with his 'n under his arm, and his neck bruck,--that was
the way o' it. See now, master, if ever ye do want a great streak out
of her, leave the head free a bit, press her wi' your calves, and give a
right down reg'lar halloo,--ha! like a Mexican chap; then she'll do it!"
The ostler found me a willing listener, either when dwelling on the
animal's perfections, or suggesting hints for her future management; and
when at last both these themes were tolerably exhausted, he proceeded to
show me the horse-gear of saddle, and bridle, and halter, and holsters,
all handsomely finished in Mexican taste, and studded with brass nails
in various gay devices. At last he produced the rifle,--a regular
Kentucky one, of Colt's making,--and what he considered a still greater
prize, a bell-mouthed thing half horse-pistol, half blunderbuss, which
he called "a almighty fine 'Harper's Ferry tool,' that would throw
thirty bullets through an oak panel two inches thick."
It was evident that he looked upon the whole equipment as worthy of the
most exalted possession, and he gazed on me as one whose lot was indeed
to be envied.
"Seth and the others leave this to-morrow a'ternoon," said he; "but if
ye be a-goin' to Austin, where the 'Spedeshin' puts up, take my advice,
and get away before 'em. You 've a fine road,--no trouble to find the
way; your beast will carry you forty, fifty, if you want it, sixty,
miles between sunrise and 'down;' and you 'll be snug over the journey
before they reach Killian's Mill, the half-way. An' if ye want to know
why I say so, it's just because that's too good a beast to tempt a
tramper wi', and them's all trampers!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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