Eglan. Not surprised at that, Dick. Never crossed a greater slug in my
life--She's only fit to carry a dean or a bishop--No go in her.
Dick. No, zur, measter zays as how you took it all out on her.
Eglan. Why, I did give her a winder, Dick, to be sure, only one day's
hunting, though, a good hard run over Somerset range, not above sixty
miles out and home.
Dick. Ay, I thought as how you'd been in some break-neck tumble-down
country, zur, for Tit's knuckels showed she'd had a somerset or two.
Eglan. Well, blister the mare, Dick! there's _half a bull_ for your
trouble: now put us on the right scent for a good one: any thing young
and fresh, sprightly and shewy?
Dick. Why, there be such a one to be zure, zur, but you munna split on
me, or I shall get the zack for telling on ye. If you'll sken yon stable
at end o' the yard, there be two prime tits just com'd in from Abingdon
fair, thorough-bred and devils to go, but measter won't let 'em out.
Eglan. Won't he? here he comes, and we'll try what a little persuasion
will do. (Enter Livery Man.) Well, old fellow, I've brought you a new
friend, Blackmantle of Brazennose: what sort of _praxis_ can you give us
for a trot to Bagley Wood, a short ride for something shewy to _lionise_
a bit?
Livery M. Nothing new, sir, and you know all the stud pretty well
(knowingly).
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