ff or a short cuff, or no cuff at all--just as the weather dictated.
Though the coat was single-breasted, he had a hole made on the button side,
to enable him to keep it together by means of a miniature snaffle, instead
of a button. The snaffle passed across his chest, from whence the coatee,
flowing easily back, displayed the broad ridge and furrow of a white cord
waistcoat, with a low step collar, the vest reaching low down his figure,
with large flap pockets and a nick out in front, like a coachman's.
Instead of buttons, the waistcoat was secured with foxes' tusks and catgut
loops, while a heavy curb chain, passing from one pocket to the other,
raised the impression that there was a watch in one and a bunch of seals in
the other. The waistcoat was broadly bound with white binding, and, like
the coat, evinced great strength and powers of resistance. His breeches
were of a still broader furrow than the waistcoat, looking as if the
ploughman had laid two ridges into one. They came low down the leg, and
were met by a pair of well-made, well put on, very brown topped boots, a
colour then unknown at Laverick Wells. His spurs were bright and heavy,
with formidable necks and rowels, whose slightest touch would make a horse
wince, and put him on his good behaviour.

Nor did the great slapping brown horse, Hercules, turn out less imposingly
than his master. Leather, though not the man to work himself, had a very
good idea of work, and right manfully he made the helpers at the Eclipse
livery and bait stables strap and groom his horses. Hercules was a fine
animal. It did not require a man to be a great judge of a horse to see
that. Even the ladies, though perhaps they would rather have had him a
white or a cream colour, could not but admire his nut-brown muzzle, his
glossy coat, his silky mane, and the elegant way in which he carried his
flowing tail. His step was delightful to look at--so free, so accurate, and
so easy. And that reminds us that we may as well be getting Mr. Sponge
up--a feat of no easy accomplishment. Few hack hunters are without their
little peculiarities. Some are runaways--some kick--some bite--some go tail
first on the road--some go tail first at their fences--some rush as if they
were going to eat them, others baulk them altogether--and few, very few,
give satisfaction. Those that do, generally retire from the public stud to
the private one. But to our particular quadruped, 'Hercules.'

Mr. Sponge was not w