THE DEALER. 117 



"What a good fellow the Major seems," I remarked 

 to him, as that gallant officer landed in the field some 

 distance from us. 



"Yes, don't he, charming — who are you talking 

 about ? " he replied. 



" The man on the grey," I answered, pointing him 

 out. 



" Why <■ the JMajor ' r " he asked. " I'm not aware that 

 he's a major, except in the sense of being an old soldier, 

 perhaps. That's Scratton the dealer." 



" He talks like a gentleman," I said, looking at his 

 card which, sure enough, was inscribed " Mr. Scratton, 

 The Farm, Coverton." " Do you know him ? What sort 

 of a fellow is he ? " I asked my friend. 



" Well, he's a horse-dealer," I was again informed. 



" So you said ; but is he all right r " 



" For a horse-dealer, I dare say he is," my friend drily 

 answered, evidently entertaining the common prejudice, 

 which may or may not be well founded, as to the in- 

 tegrity of the race. 



On the Friday, however, I determined to ride over, 

 and, at any rate, have a look at what was to be seen at 

 The Farm ; and an hour's trot, with a gallop over 

 Coverton Common, brought me in sight of Scratton's 

 establishment — an old-fashioned, high-roofed, red-tiled 

 house, with what had been farm buildings, and were 

 no\y stables, stretching to the right and back. 



In a field near the house some flights of hurdles had 

 been placed, over which Scratton was persuasively 



