‘May as well have him, sir,’ said his counsellor. ‘He’ll go cheap. He’ll always stick to the lake; and if any one else gets him, they’ll be wanting us to run him in, half the time.’
Wilfred looked at the horse. The type was one to which he had not been accustomed—neither a roadster, a hunter, a hackney, nor a harness horse—he was _sui generis_, the true Australian stock-horse, now rarely seen, and seldom up to the feats and performances of which grizzled veterans of the stock-whip love to tell.
No one with an eye for a horse could look at the war-worn screw without interest. A long, low horse, partaking more of the Arab type than the English, he possessed the shapes which make for endurance, and more than ordinary speed. The head was lean and well shaped, with a well-opened, still bright eye. The neck was arched, though not long; but the shoulder, to a lover of horses, was truly magnificent. Muscular, fairly high in the wither, and remarkably oblique, it permitted the freest action possible, while the rider who sat behind such a formation might enjoy a feeling of security far beyond the average. Battered and worn, no doubt, were the necessary supports, by cruelly protracted performances of headlong speed and wayfaring. Yet the flat cannon-bones, the iron hoofs, the tough tendons, had withstood the woeful hardships to which they had been subjected, with less damage than might have been expected. The knees slightly bent forward, the strained ligaments, showed partial unsoundness, yet was there no tangible ‘break down.’ What must such a horse have been in his colthood—in his prime?
A sudden feeling of pity arose in Wilfred’s heart as he ran his eye critically over the scarred veteran. At a small price he would, no doubt, be a good investment, old as he was. He would be reasonably useful; and as a matter of charity one might do worse alms before Heaven than save one of the most gallant of God’s creatures from closing his existence in toil and suffering. Mick’s neighbours not being more sentimental than himself, Wilfred found himself the purchaser of the historical courser at a price considerably under five pounds.
‘By George! I’m glad you’ve got him, mister,’ said Mr. Donnelly, with vicarious generosity. ‘I’m not rich enough to pension him, and the money he’s fetched, put into a cow, will be something handsome in ten years. But he’s a long ways from broke down yet; and you’ll have your money’s worth out of him, with luck, before he kicks the bucket. You’d better ride him home, and I’ll send my boy Jack with you as far as Benmohr. He’ll lead Bob Jones’s moke, that you rode here, and leave him in Argyll and Hamilton’s paddock till he’s sent for. You’d as well get off with your mob, if you want to get to Benmohr before dark.’