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"Thin me ould grandfather comes out, and collars me by the scruff, and `Into the sty with you! says he; and into the sty I wint, and there they kep' me for a fortnit on bran mash and skim milk and well I desarved it."
I tell you, if this here mare had a week spell, you could n't hold her; an' she'd go a hundred mile between sunrise an' sunset, at the same bat. Yes, boss; it's the breed does it. I seen some good horses about the King, but swelp me Gawd I never seen a patch on this mare; an' you might n't think it to look at her jist now. Fact is, boss, she wants a week or a fortnit spell.
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