“The bastes is looking finely, sir,” said Bob Carney, who, as stud-groom and huntsman, had long presided over his department. “So they are, Bob, but I don't know half of them; where did this strong brown horse come from?” “That's Clipper, yer honor; I knew you wouldn't know him. He took up finely after his run last winter.” “And the fore leg, is it strong again?” “As stout as a bar of iron; one of the boys had him out two days ago, and he took the yellow ditch flying: we measured nineteen feet between the mark of his hoofs.” “He ought to be strong enough to carry me, Bob.” “Don't ride him, sir, he's an uncertain divil; and though he 'll go straight over everything for maybe twenty minutes or half an hour, he 'll stop short at a drain not wider than a potato furrow, and the power of man would n't get him over it.” “That's a smart gray yonder,--what is she?” “She's the one we tried as a leader one day; yer honor remembers you bid me shoot her, or get rid of her, for she kicked the traces, and nearly the wheel-horse, all to smash; and now she's the sweetest tiling to ride, for eleven stone, in the whole country. There's an English colonel to try her to-day; my only advice to him is, let her have her own way of it, for, if he begins pulling at her, 't is maybe in Donegal he 'll be before evening.” “And what have you for me?” said the Knight; “for I scarcely know any of my old friends here.” “There's the mouse-colored cob----” “No, no,” said the Knight, laughing; “I want to keep my place, Bob. You must give me something better than that.” “Faith, an' your honor might have worse; but if it's for riding you are, take Black Peter, and you 'll never find the fence too big, or the ground too heavy for him. I was going to give him to the English lord; I suppose, after all, he 'll be better pleased with the cob.” “Well, then, Peter for me. And now let's see what Mr. Lionel has to ride.” “There she is, and a beauty!” said Bob, as, with a dexterous jerk, he chucked a sheet off her haunches, and displayed the shining flanks and splendid proportions of a thoroughbred mare. “That's Cushleen,” said he, as he fixed his eyes on the Knight's face to enjoy the reflection of his own delight. “That's the darlin' can do it!--a child can hould her, but it takes a man to sit on her back--racing speed over a flat, and a jump!--'t is more like the bound of a football than anything else.” “She has the eye of a hot one, Bob.”