“You’ve got a mouth, at any rate,” quoth Mr. Sawyer, and trotted him gently down the hard road, the animal stepping freely and gaily under him, full of life and spirits. The customer liked his mount, and couldn’t help showing it. “May I lark him?” said he, pulling up after a short canter to and fro on the turf by the wayside; during which Job Sloper had been exercising his mental arithmetic in what we may term a sum of problematical addition. “Take him into the close, sir,” was the generous reply; “put him at anything you like. If you can get him into one of these fences, I’ll _give_ him to you!” So Mr. Sawyer sat down to jump a low hedge and ditch, then stood up, and caught hold of the roan’s head, and sent him a cracker through the adjoining plough, and across a larger fence into a pasture, and back again over a fair flight of rails and lost his flat shooting-hat, and rucked his plaid trousers up to his knees; and Sloper marked his kindling eye and glowing cheek, and knew that he had _landed_ him. “Walk him about for ten minutes before you do him over,” said that worthy to Barney, as Mr. Sawyer dismounted, and the latter brought him his hat. “And now, sir,” added the hospitable dealer, “you can’t go away without tasting my cheese—the same you liked last time, you know. Walk in, sir; this way, and mind the step, if _you_ please.” So speaking, Mr. Sloper ushered his guest into a neat little parlour with a strong odour of preserved tobacco-smoke, where a clean cloth set off a nice luncheon of bread and cheese, flanked by a foaming jug of strong ale and a decanter of oily-brown sherry. And herein the dealer showed his knowledge of human nature, and his discrimination in the different characteristics of the species. Had his guest been some generous scion of the aristocracy, with more money than nerves, he would have _primed_ him first, and put him up to ride afterwards. But he knew his man. He was well aware that Mr. Sawyer required no stimulant to make him jump, but a strong one to induce him to part with his money; so he proposed the luncheon after he was satisfied that his customer was pleased with his mount. Neither of them touched on business during the meal, the conversation consisting chiefly of the runs that had lately taken place in the Old Country, with many an inferred compliment to the good riding of the possible purchaser. Then Mr. Sawyer produced the Laranagas and offered one to Job, who bit it, and wet it, and smoked it, as men do who are more used to clay pipes, and then they went back to the stable to see the roan done up. The gallop and the ale were working in Mr. Sawyer’s brain, but he didn’t see his way into the roan at a hundred; so he obstinately held his tongue. The dealer was obliged to break the ice.