“Oh, he’s not so old,” she said evasively. She was scanning the horses with troubled eye, perturbed even more than by her own affairs by the thought of the innumerable diseases and defects and doctorings which might be lurking beneath their sheen of health and vigour. Her innocent faith undermined by literature and Mr. Flippance’s experience, she had a cynical sense of horsey hypocrisy, of whited, blacked, or browned sepulchres, within which fearsome worms burrowed in their millions. She would have gladly consulted Will, had he not been so tactlessly intrusive. Even as it was, she murmured encouragingly: “There doesn’t seem much choice to-day.” Indeed, the animals were mostly huge shire horses with their heavily feathered fetlocks. Of hackneys there were only two or three. “I should take that Suffolk Punch,” advised Will, indicating a chestnut. “He’ll have the strength to draw the caravan, and doesn’t look so clumsy and hairy-legged as the others.” “I like the star on his forehead,” said Jinny. “But I can’t bear a cropped tail, it’s cruel. Besides, Mr. Flippance hasn’t got a caravan.” “Well, how does he carry all that truck I saw?” “Oh, that goes in wagons with horses just hired from town to town. They don’t even live in a caravan like Mr. Duke’s got. No, but they have a trap that they drive over in, ahead, and then Mr. Flippance uses the trap to look for a pitch to hire, or to bring home naphtha for the lamps or timber for mending the theatre—something always goes wrong, he says.” “Then I’d have the Cleveland?” “Which is the Cleveland?” “That tall bay with black points and clean legs. I’ve hardly ever seen one at an Essex fair, but they’re strong as plough-horses and handsome as hackneys.” “But don’t you think that couple there are handsomer?” “The black—of course! They’re a pair of real carriage horses. Splendid action, I reckon. But Mr. Flippance won’t want anything so showy as that.” “Just what a show does want,” laughed Jinny. “You see he also rides about the town, blowing on the horn and scattering handbills.” “I didn’t understand that. And can he blow a horn as well?” “As well as who?” “As me!” said Will boldly. “And when am I to have my gloves?” He sought her hand in the press and it was not withdrawn. “When you go blowing it for Mr. Flippance in his next town,” she laughed happily. “Then I must choose the horse I blow behind,” he said with an air of lightness. “What’s the most old Flippance will go to?” “Thirty pounds is his last word, I’m afraid.” “Much too little. But we’ll see. Now I’ll take you back to your cart.” “What for?” Her hand unclasped. “I’ve got to buy the horse, I must wait here.” “But they’ll be taken in there.” He pointed to the cattle auction-chamber. “And there’s no need for you to bid personally.” “I shall enjoy bidding.” “Among all those men? You won’t even get a look in.” The chamber was indeed besieged by a seething crowd, some standing on tiptoe, astrain to get their bids marked.