ought
from the tone of Mr Maxwell's voice that he was alluding to Mr
Grindley himself, but Mr Grindley didn't seem to take it in that
light.

"That's true, of course," said he. "We can't pick men just as we
please. But I certainly didn't think that he'd make it out for
another season."

The club breakfasted the next morning at nine o'clock, in order that
they might start at half-past for the meet at Edgehill. Edgehill is
twelve miles from Roebury, and the hacks would do it in an hour and
a half,--or perhaps a little less. "Does anybody know anything about
that brown horse of Vavasor's?" said Maxwell. "I saw him coming into
the yard yesterday with that old groom of his."

"He had a brown horse last season," said Grindley;--"a little thing
that went very fast, but wasn't quite sound on the road."

"That was a mare," said Maxwell, "and he sold her to Cinquebars."*

[*Ah, my friend, from whom I have borrowed this scion of the
nobility! Had he been left with us he would have forgiven me
my little theft, and now that he has gone I will not change
the name.]

"For a hundred and fifty," said Calder Jones, "and she wasn't worth
the odd fifty."

"He won seventy with her at Leamington," said Maxwell, "and I doubt
whether he'd take his money now."

"Is Cinquebars coming down here this year?"

"I don't know," said Maxwell. "I hope not. He's the best fellow in
the world, but he can't ride, and he don't care for hunting, and he
makes more row than any fellow I ever met. I wish some fellow could
tell me something about that fellow's brown horse."

"I'd never buy a horse of Vavasor's if I were you," said Grindley.
"He never has anything that's all right all round."

"And who has?" said Maxwell, as he took into his plate a second
mutton chop, which had just been brought up hot into the room
especially for him. "That's the mistake men make about horses, and
that's why there's so much cheating. I never ask for a warranty with
a horse, and don't very often have a horse examined. Yet I do as
well as others. You can't have perfect horses any more than you can
perfect men, or perfect women. You put up with red hair, or bad
teeth, or big feet,--or sometimes with the devil of a voice. But a
man when he wants a horse won't put up with anything! Therefore those
who've got horses to sell must lie. When I go into the market with
three hundred pounds I expect a perfect animal. As I never do that
now I never expect a pe