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Sponge
thought he looked very like a hunter. Nor were Mr. Buckram's laudations
wanting in the animal's behalf.
'There's an 'orse!' exclaimed he, drawing his right hand out of his trouser
pocket, and flourishing it towards him. 'If that 'orse were down in
Leicestersheer,' added he, 'he'd fetch three 'under'd guineas. Sir Richard
would 'ave him in a minnit--_that he would!_' added he, with a stamp of his
foot as he saw the animal beginning to set up his back and wince at the
approach of the lad. (We may here mention by way of parenthesis, that Mr.
Buckram had brought him out of Warwicksheer for thirty pounds, where the
horse had greatly distinguished himself, as well by kicking off sundry
scarlet swells in the gaily thronged streets of Leamington, as by running
away with divers others over the wide-stretching grazing grounds of
Southam and Dunchurch.)
But to our story. The horse now stood staring on view: fire in his eye, and
vigour in his every limb. Leather at his head, the lad at his side. Sponge
and Buckram a little on the left.


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