“Well, my lord,” said a sort of foreman, or partner, or managing man, who usually presided over the yard, “I think we’ll be apt to get justice to Ireland on the downs this year. That is, they’ll give us nothing but what we takes from ’em by hard fighting, or running, as the case may be.” “How’s Brien looking this morning, Grady?” “As fresh as a primrose, my lord, and as clear as crystal: he’s ready, this moment, to run through any set of three years old as could be put on the Curragh, anyway.” “I’m afraid you’re putting him on too forward.” “Too forrard, is it, my lord? not a bit. He’s a hoss as naturally don’t pick up flesh; though he feeds free, too. He’s this moment all wind and bottom, though, as one may say, he’s got no training. He’s niver been sthretched yet. Faith it’s thrue I’m telling you, my lord.” “I know Scott doesn’t like getting horses, early in the season, that are too fine—too much drawn up; he thinks they lose power by it, and so they do;—it’s the distance that kills them, at the Derby. It’s so hard to get a young horse to stay the distance.” “That’s thrue, shure enough, my lord; and there isn’t a gentleman this side the wather, anyway, undherstands thim things betther than your lordship.” “Well, Grady, let’s have a look at the young chieftain: he’s all right about the lungs, anyway.” “And feet too, my lord; niver saw a set of claner feet with plates on: and legs too! If you were to canter him down the road, I don’t think he’d feel it; not that I’d like to thry, though.” “Why, he’s not yet had much to try them.” “Faix, he has, my lord: didn’t he win the Autumn Produce Stakes?” “The only thing he ever ran for.” “Ah, but I tell you, as your lordship knows very well—no one betther—that it’s a ticklish thing to bring a two year old to the post, in anything like condition—with any running in him at all, and not hurt his legs.” “But I think he’s all right—eh, Grady?” “Right?—your lordship knows he’s right. I wish he may be made righter at John Scott’s, that’s all. But that’s unpossible.” “Of course, Grady, you think he might be trained here, as well as at the other side of the water?” “No, I don’t, my lord: quite different. I’ve none of thim ideas at all, and never had, thank God. I knows what we can do, and I knows what they can do:—breed a hoss in Ireland, train him in the North of England, and run him in the South; and he’ll do your work for you, and win your money, steady and shure.” “And why not run in the North, too?” “They’re too ’cute, my lord: they like to pick up the crumbs themselves—small blame to thim in that matther. No; a bright Irish nag, with lots of heart, like Brien Boru, is the hoss to stand on for the Derby; where all run fair and fair alike, the best wins;—but I won’t say but he’ll be the betther for a little polishing at Johnny Scott’s.” “Besides, Grady, no horse could run immediately after a sea voyage. Do you remember what a show we made of Peter Simple at Kilrue?”