His condition was perfect.

His coat lay as close and even as satin, with cleanly developed muscle, and altogether he looked as hard as a cricket-ball.

He had a famous switch tail, reaching nearly to his hocks, and making him look less than he would otherwise have done.
Mr.Sponge was too well versed in horse-flesh to imagine that such an animal would be in the possession of such a third-rate dealer as Buckram, unless there was something radically wrong about him, and as Sam and Leather were paying the horse those stable attentions that always precede a show out, Mr.Sponge settled in his own mind that the observation about his requiring a horseman to ride him, meant that he was vicious.

Nor was he wrong in his anticipations, for not all Leather's whistlings, or Sam's endearings and watchings, could conceal the sunken, scowling eye, that as good as said, 'you'd better keep clear of me.' Mr.Sponge, however, was a dauntless horseman.

What man dared he dared, and as the horse stepped proudly and freely out of the stable, Mr.Sponge thought he looked very like a hunter.