A Story of Punchestown by G. J. Whyte-Melville.
SHE’LL make a chaser annyhow! ”
The speaker was a rough looking man in a frieze coat, with wide mouth, short nose, and grey, honest Irish eyes, that twinkled with humour on occasion, though clouded for the present by disappointment, not to say disgust, and with some reason. In his hand he held a broken strap, with broad and dingy buckle; at his feet, detached from shafts and wheels, lay the body of an ungainly vehicle, neither gig, dogcart, nor outside car, but something of each, battered and splintered in a dozen places; while “fore-aninst ” him, as he called it, winced and fretted a young black mare, snorting, trembling, fractious, and terrified, with ears laid back, tail tucked down to her strong cowering quarters, and an obvious determination on the slightest alarm to kick herself clear of everything once more.
At her head stood a ragged urchin of fourteen ; although her eyes showed wild and red above the shabby blinkers, she rubbed her nose against the lad’s waistcoat, and seemed to consider him the only friend she had left in the world.