“There’s a friend of mine, sir, got a horse, that I should say was just about your mark, and would carry you as I can see you _like_ to be carried. I had him in price all last season myself, but money couldn’t buy him then; for my friend he was an out-and-out sporting chap, and could _ride_ too! But he’s been and got married since, and gone to live in Drury Lane for good and all; so he’s no more use for a hunter now, than a cow has for a side-pocket, or a pig for a frilled-shirt. What a horse he is, to be sure!—dark-brown, tan muzzle, not a speck of white about him; up to fourteen stone; by Ratcatcher, out of Sly Puss by Mousetrap, and Mousetrap, you remember, was by Grimalkin, and the sire of Whittington, Cat’s-cradle and a many good ones. I know all about him, and have done since he was a foal. My friend he bought him off of the farmer that bred him.” “Why, Ratcatcher has been covering at the Castle for years,” I replied, rather congratulating myself upon having Mr. Naggett “out;” “and Sly Puss never belonged to anybody but the Earl!” “Well, sir,” retorted he, “and that’s exactly the farmer I mean. A very respectable farmer I call him too, and one that farms _his own land_, which is more than can be said for a good many of them. Talk of jumping, I wish you could only see this nag jump!” There is something about the discussion of horseflesh in front of a big fire, with a cigar in his mouth, that disposes a man unaccountably to _buy_. Knowing I couldn’t hunt for six weeks, what did I want with another horse? “Why should I not?” I rashly inquired. “I might look at him, at any rate. Where is he to be seen?” “Well, sir, he’s at my place now,” replied Mr. Naggett, adding, with an air of charming frankness. “The fact is, I’ve got him to keep for my friend, who is a cousin of my wife’s, and I’ve got the riding of him for his corn. If it wasn’t that my business won’t allow me to hunt as much as I should like, I’d buy him myself, particularly considering the price.” “What does he ask?” I inquired, walking as it were open-eyed into the pitfall prepared for me. Mr. Naggett looked me over from top to toe, as if I had been a prize ox. Probably he was making a mental computation of my soft-headedness. I am afraid I looked very much like a fool, for he replied boldly— “One hundred and twenty sovereigns; take him as he stands; no questions asked; and dirt-cheap at the money.” “How old is he?” was naturally my next inquiry. “Is he quiet to ride?” I added; “and thoroughly temperate with hounds? Also, is he fit to go at present? and does your wife’s cousin warrant him sound?”