Three paces through the darkness took us to the stable, an offset at the back of the inn.

My man twirled the pin, and, leading the way in, raised his lanthorn.

A horse whinnied softly, and turned its bright, mild eyes on us--a baldfaced chestnut, with white hairs in its tail and one white stocking.
'There!' my guide exclaimed, waving the lanthorn to and fro boastfully, that I might see its points.

'What do you say to that?
Is that an undersized pony ?' 'No,' I answered, purposely stinting my praise.

'It is pretty fair--for this country.' 'Or any country,' he answered wrathfully.