112 THE COACHING ERA 



once inquired if the oats and hay supplied were of fine 

 quality. The coachman replied that they were, first- 

 rate in fa6l; the hay came from a reliable farmer at 

 Dorchester, and, as for the oats, they were Mr. Costar's 

 own, and the coach carried a sack from Oxford every day. 



Clearly the food suppHed was not at fault, but the 

 horses grew weaker, and the coachman's complaints more 

 urgent, so that Costar determined to go to Chilton pond 

 himself. Accordingly, he drove up to the Chequers Inn 

 one morning just after the coach had changed. He went 

 into the bar, had a chat with the landlord, and then 

 strolled casually round to the stables. In the yard he 

 stumbled on the solution of the puzzle, for his unfortu- 

 nate horses, still smoking from their journey, and with 

 their harness on, were wallowing in a dirty pond. The 

 horse-keeper who should have attended to them was 

 busily engaged in feeding six large hogs, and feedingthem, 

 moreover, on the horses' provender just brought up by 

 the coach. Costar restrained his temper and determined 

 to probe such iniquity to the depths. 



"Good morning, young man," he remarked, "your pigs 

 look well. They seem to like a mixture of beans and 

 oats, though I never saw pigs fed with it before." 



"Yes, sir," replied the young man. "They certainly 

 thrive on it." 



He then drove his hogs back to their styes, bedded 

 them comfortably with what Mr. Costar shrewdly sus- 

 pedled was his straw and, without a thought of the un- 

 fortunate coach horses, went back to the bar for a drink. 

 When he had refreshed himself at his leisure, he came out 



