Tips indulged in a pitying smile. “Have you never had a violent _old_ horse, sir?” said he. “How many nags have you owned that you could trust after half-a-dozen seasons to do a gate to a certainty, or land clear of the second ditch, when they knowed nothing beforehand, or to go by a post in a hurry without jamming of your leg against it? Now a young one _takes notice_, as the women say of their babies.—You’ll excuse _me_, miss.—A young one is all for learning, for doing the best he can to please you—for going your way instead of his own. A young one may put you down quietly once or twice from ignorance, or because you won’t let him alone; and he hasn’t learnt yet to disregard your pulling him about, but he makes it up to you before the day’s over. And if I was a-going to ride for my life to-morrow over a country I’d never seen before, I’d ask for a four-year-old to do it on, if I was quite sure that he was a fast one, a bold one, and with a spice of the devil that he got from the mare that bred him!” With this startling exposition of his theory, Tips swallowed his gin-and-water at a gulp, and then looked anxiously at the door, seemingly for the reappearance of Mr. Naggett. As that worthy, however, did not return, I could but entreat the rough-rider to allow Miss Lushington to replenish his glass at my expense; and lighting a cigar myself, by that lady’s permission, I begged Tips to take a chair, and proceeded with my inquiries. “Is there no sort of horse then,” I asked, “that you consider dangerous? or do you believe that whenever an accident happens, collar-bones or otherwise, it _must_ be the fault of the rider?”