“Devil a drop, then,” resumed the other. “I just sprinkled the oats, no more; that's Miss Mary's orders always.” “She understands a stable well,” said Scanlan, half questioning. “Does n't she?” said the other, with a sententious smack of the lip. “To bit a horse or to back him, to tache him his paces and cure him of bad tricks, to train him for harness, double and single, to show him the way over a wall or a wide ditch, to make him rise light and come down easy, she has n't a match on this island; and as for training,” added he, with fresh breath, “did you see Sir Lucius?” “No,” said Scanlan, with awakened interest. “Wait till I bring him out, then. I'll show you a picture!” And Barnes disappeared into the stable. In five minutes after, he returned, leading a dark brown horse, who, even shrouded in all the covering of hood and body-clothes, displayed in his long step and lounging gait the attributes of a racer. In a few minutes Barnes had unbuckled strap and surcingle, and sweeping back the blankets dexterously over the croup, so as not to ruffle a hair of the glossy coat, exhibited an animal of surpassing symmetry, in all the pride of high condition. “There's a beast,” said he, proudly, “without speck or spot, brand or blemish about him! You 're a good judge of a horse, Mr. Scanlan; and tell me when did you see his equal?” “He's a nice horse!” said Scanlan, slowly, giving to each word a slow and solemn significance; then, casting a keen glance all around and over him, added, “There 's a splint on the off leg!” “So there is, the least taste in life,” said Barnes, passing his hand lightly over it; “and was there ever a horse--worth the name of a horse--that hadn't a splint? Sure, they 're foaled with them! I wanted Miss Mary to let me take that off with an ointment I have, but she would n't. 'It's not in the way of the tendon,' says she. 'It will never spoil his action, and we 'll not blemish him with a mark.' Them's her very words.” “He's a nice horse,” said Scanlan, once more, as if the very parsimony of the praise was the highest testimony of the utterer; “and in rare condition, too,” added he. “In the very highest,” said Barnes. “He was as sure of that cup as I am that my name 's Tim.” “What cup?” asked Scanlan. “Kiltimmon,--the June race; he's entered and all; and now he's to be sold,--them 's the orders I got yesterday; he's to be auctioned at Dycer's on Saturday for whatever he'll bring!” “And now, what do you expect for him, Barnes?” said Maurice, confidentially. “Sorrow one o' me knows. He might go for fifty,--he might go for two hundred and fifty! and cheap he'd be of it. He has racing speed over a flat course, and steeplechase action for his fences. With eleven stone on his back--one that can ride, I mean, of course--he 'd challenge all Ireland.” [Illustration: 418] “I would n't mind making a bid for him myself,” said Scanlan, hesitating between his jockeyism and the far deeper game which he was playing.