Morgan was there, of course, and one of his whips. Of
Ayrshire folk, perhaps five or six, and among them our friend Mr.
Carstairs. They had run him down close to the outbuildings of a farmyard,
and they broke him up in the home paddock.
"What do you think of hunting?" said Frank to his cousin.
"It's divine."
"My cousin went pretty well, I think," he said to Lord George.
"Like a celestial bird of paradise. No one ever went better--or I believe
so well. You've been carried rather nicely yourself."
"Indeed I have," said Frank, patting his still palpitating horse, "and
he's not to say tired now."
"You've taken it pretty well out of him, sir," said Carstairs. "There was
a little bit of hill that told when we got over the brook. I know'd you'd
find he'd jump a bit."
"I wonder whether he's to be bought?" asked Frank in his enthusiasm.
"I don't know the horse that isn't," said Mr. Carstairs, "so long as you
don't stand at the figure."
They were collected on the farm road, and now, as they were speaking,
there was a commotion among the horses. A man driving a little buggy was
forcing his way along the road, and there was a sound of voices, as though
the man in the buggy were angry.
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