Nor were Mr.Buckram's laudations wanting in the animal's behalf.
'There's an 'orse!' exclaimed he, drawing his right hand out of his trouser pocket, and flourishing it towards him.

'If that 'orse were down in Leicestersheer,' added he, 'he'd fetch three 'under'd guineas.

Sir Richard would 'ave him in a minnit--_that he would!_' added he, with a stamp of his foot as he saw the animal beginning to set up his back and wince at the approach of the lad.

(We may here mention by way of parenthesis, that Mr.
Buckram had brought him out of Warwicksheer for thirty pounds, where the horse had greatly distinguished himself, as well by kicking off sundry scarlet swells in the gaily thronged streets of Leamington, as by running away with divers others over the wide-stretching grazing grounds of Southam and Dunchurch.) But to our story.

The horse now stood staring on view: fire in his eye, and vigour in his every limb.