Eglan. What coming Tip-street over us, hey, Dick? ~158~~ _frisking the freshman_ here, old fellow? (pointing to me). It won't do--no go, Dick--he's my friend, a _cawker_ to be sure, but must not _stand Sam_ to an _Oxford raff_, or a Yorkshire _Johnny Raw_. Dick. I axes pardon, zur. I didna mean any such thing, but ever since you rode the grey tit last, she's never been out o' stall. Eglan. Not surprised at that, Dick. Never crossed a greater slug in my life--She's only fit to carry a dean or a bishop--No go in her. Dick. No, zur, measter zays as how you took it all out on her. Eglan. Why, I did give her a winder, Dick, to be sure, only one day's hunting, though, a good hard run over Somerset range, not above sixty miles out and home. Dick. Ay, I thought as how you'd been in some break-neck tumble-down country, zur, for Tit's knuckels showed she'd had a somerset or two. Eglan. Well, blister the mare, Dick! there's _half a bull_ for your trouble: now put us on the right scent for a good one: any thing young and fresh, sprightly and shewy? Dick. Why, there be such a one to be zure, zur, but you munna split on me, or I shall get the zack for telling on ye. If you'll sken yon stable at end o' the yard, there be two prime tits just com'd in from Abingdon fair, thorough-bred and devils to go, but measter won't let 'em out. Eglan. Won't he? here he comes, and we'll try what a little persuasion will do. (Enter Livery Man.) Well, old fellow, I've brought you a new friend, Blackmantle of Brazennose: what sort of _praxis_ can you give us for a trot to Bagley Wood, a short ride for something shewy to _lionise_ a bit? Livery M. Nothing new, sir, and you know all the stud pretty well (knowingly). Suppose you try the grey mare you rode t'other day, and I'll find a quiet one for your friend. ~159~~ Eglan. If I do, I am a _black horse_. She's no paces, nothing _but a shuffle_, not a _leg to stand on_. Livery M. Every one as good as the principal of All-Souls. Not a better bred thing in Oxford, and all horses here gallop by instinct, as every body knows, but they can't go for ever, and when gentlemen ride steeple chases of sixty miles or more right a-head, they ought to find their own horse-flesh. Eglan. What coming _crabb_ over us, old fellow, hey 1 Very well, I shall bolt and try Randall, and that's all about it. Come along, Blackmantle.