“I could have almost hugged the old fellow for his happy suggestion, and waited with impatience for three o’clock to come, when we repaired together to Essexbridge, at that time the place selected for these sales. “I was at first a little shocked at the look of the animals drawn up; they were most miserably thin, most of them swelled in the legs, few without sore backs, and not one eye on an average in every three; but still they were all high-steppers, and carried a great tail. ‘There’s your affaire,’ said the old Frenchman, as a long-legged, fiddle-headed beast was led out; turning out his forelegs so as to endanger the man who walked beside him. “‘Yes, there’s blood for you,’ said Charley Dycer, seeing my eye fixed on the wretched beast; ‘equal to fifteen stone with any fox-hounds; safe in all his paces, and warranted sound; except,’ added he, in a whisper, ‘a slight spavin in both hind legs, ring-bone, and a little touch in the wind.’ Here the animal gave an approving cough. ‘Will any gentleman say fifty pounds to begin?’ But no gentleman did. A hackney-coachman, however, said five, and the sale was opened; the beast trotting up and down nearly over the bidders at every moment, and plunging on so that it was impossible to know what was doing. “‘Five ten—fifteen—six pounds—thank you, sir—guineas—seven pounds,’ said I, bidding against myself, not perceiving that I had spoken last. ‘Thank you, Mr. Moriarty,’ said Dycer, turning toward an invisible purchaser supposed to be in the crowd. ‘Thank you, sir, you’ll not let a good one go that way.’ Every one here turned to find out the very knowing gentleman; but he could nowhere be seen. “Dycer resumed, ‘Seven ten, for Mr. Moriarty. Going for seven ten—a cruel sacrifice—there’s action for you—playful beast.’ Here the devil had stumbled and nearly killed a basket-woman with two children. “‘Eight,’ said I, with a loud voice. “‘Eight pounds, quite absurd,’ said Dycer, almost rudely; ‘a charger like that for eight pounds—going for eight pounds—going—nothing above eight pounds—no reserve, gentlemen, you are aware of that. They are all, as it were, his Majesty’s stud—no reserve whatever—last time, eight pounds—gone.’ “Amid a very hearty cheer from the mob, God knows why, but a Dublin mob always cheers—I returned accompanied by a ragged fellow, leading my new purchase after me with a hay halter. “‘What is the meaning of those letters?’ said I, pointing to a very conspicuous G. R., with sundry other enigmatical signs, burned upon the animal’s hind quarter. “‘That’s to show he was a po-lis,’ said the fellow with a grin; ‘and when ye ride with ladies, ye must turn the decoy side.”