The Trotter. 125 



nothing very striking in her appearance, and certainly very little 

 that betokened the fast trotter. She stood about fifteen hands, was 

 eight years old, of a rusty-black colour with a blaze down her face, 

 a beautiful blood-like head, and sweet fore-hand, but ugly drooping 

 hind quarters, and a swish tail very low set on j she had rare good 

 flat legs, as hard as iron, big knees, and large open feet, and, save 

 her poverty, was without a blemish or a fault. The man said he 

 was sure she could trot a mile in three minutes, and he wanted 3o/. 

 for her. I liked the looks of the mare much, and bid 25^. at once. 

 After a little wrangling he proposed to take her out of the town 

 next morning, ride her himself, and, if she trotted the mile to my 

 satisfaction, I was to give him all he asked. To this I agreed. No 

 one knew anything about the matter, and next morning, at five, 

 the Welshman, who certainly walked over eleven stone, and rode 

 in a saddle the like of which I never saw before or since, was 

 mounted, and all ready for the start. We rode gently about two 

 miles out of the town, and I sent a friend on with him to the 

 third milestone to start him, and stand myself at the second to 

 see him come in. Very few were astir at that early hour, and we 

 had the course to ourselves. I waited some little time rather 

 anxiously, for the appearance of the mare at my end, when at 

 length an unearthly screech broke upon my ear, to which the shrill 

 "coo'ee" of an Australian stock-rider would have been as nothing. 

 This was followed at intervals by another and another, gradually 

 drawing nearer ; then the clatter of hoofs became more distinct, till 

 at length the mare came flying by me (followed by my friend at 

 top speed, both enveloped in a cloud of dust), pulling double, at a 

 pace which I thought I never saw bettered in a trotter. It was not, 

 however, a clattering hammer-and-pincers trot, nor a high-actioned 

 trot with the knee doubled up to the chin, but just a lengthy, low, 

 stealing pace much after old Alice Hawthorn's style of galloping. 

 As the man pulled up I could not help thinking of "Old Jolifte," and 

 how much he must have admired the way this Welsh mare " tucked 

 her haunches in" as she shot by the milestone. We made the mile 

 two seconds under the three minutes, but I will not say we were right 



