But Sloper, like the rest of his trade, was not going to show his game first. It seems to be a maxim with all salesmen to prove their customers with inferior articles before they come to the real thing. Mr. Sawyer had to walk through a four-stall stable, and inspect, preparatory to declining, a mealy bay cob, a lame grey, a broken-winded chestnut, and an enormous brown animal, very tall, very narrow, very ugly, with extremely upright forelegs and shoulders to match. The latter his owner affirmed to be “_an extraordinary shaped un_” as no doubt he was. A little playful _badinage_ on the merits of this last enlivened the visit. “What will you take for the brown, Sloper, if I buy him at so much the foot?” said the customer, as they emerged into the fresh air. “Say ten pound a foot, sir!” answered Job, with the utmost gravity, “and ten over, because _he always has a foot to spare_. Come now, Mr. Sawyer, I can afford to let a good customer like you have that horse for _fefty_. _Fefty_ guineas, or even _pounds_, sir, to _you_. I got him in a bad debt, you see, sir;—it’s Bible truth I’m telling ye;—and he only stood _me_ in forty-seven pounds ten, _and_ a sov. I gave the man as brought him over. He’s not everybody’s horse, Mr. Sawyer, that isn’t; but I think he’ll carry _you_ remarkably well.” “I don’t think I’ll ever give him a chance,” was the rejoinder. “Come, Job, we’re burning daylight; let’s go and have a look at the crack.” One individual had been listening to the above conversation with thrilling interest. This was no less a personage than Barney, Mr. Sloper’s head groom, general factotum, and rough-rider in ordinary—an official whose business it was to ride anything _at_ anything, for anybody who asked him. He was a little old man, with one eye, a red handkerchief, and the general appearance of a post-boy on half-pay; a sober fellow, too, and as brave as King Richard; yet had he expressed himself strongly about this said brown horse, the previous evening, to the maid-of-all-work. “He’s the wussest we’ve had yet,” was his fiat. “It’s nateral for ’em to fall; but when _he_ falls, he’s all over a chap till he’s crumpled him.” So his heroic heart beat more freely when they adjourned to the neighbouring box. [Illustration: The Roan.]