The lad was a mere stripling -- some fifteen or sixteen years perhaps -- tall, slight, and neat, with dark hair and eyes, and was dressed in a brown jacket -- a real boy’s jacket, without laps, white cords, and top-boots. It was his business to risk his neck and limbs at all hours of the day, on all sorts of horses, over any sort of place that any person chose to require him to put a horse at, and this he did with the daring pleasure of youth as yet undaunted by any serious fall. Sam now bestirred himself to get out the horse. The clambering of hooves presently announced his approach.

Whether Hercules was called Hercules on account of his amazing strength, or from a fanciful relationship to the famous horse of that name, we know not; but his strength and his colour would favour either supposition. He was an immense, tall, powerful, dark brown, sixteen hands horse, with an arched neck and crest, well set on, clean, lean head, and loins that looked as if they could shoot a man into the next county. His condition was perfect. His coat lay as close and even as satin, with cleanly developed muscle, and altogether he looked as hard as a cricket-ball. He had a famous switch tail, reaching nearly to his hocks, and making him look less than he would otherwise have done.

Mr Sponge was too well versed in horseflesh to imagine that such an animal would be in the possession of such a third-rate dealer as Buckram, unless there was something radically wrong about him, and as Sam and Leather were paying the horse those stable attentions that always precede a show out, Mr Sponge settled in his own mind that the observation about his requiring a horseman to ride him, meant that he was vicious. Nor was he wrong in his anticipations, for not all Leather’s whistlings, or Sam’s endearings and watchings, could conceal the sunken, scowling eye, that as good as said, ‘you’d better keep clear of me.’

Mr Sponge, however, was a dauntless horseman. What man dared he dared, and as the horse stepped proudly and freely out of the stable, Mr Sponge thought he looked very like a hunter. Nor were Mr Buckram’s laudations wanting in the animal’s behalf.

‘There’s an ’orse!’ exclaimed he, drawing his right hand out of his trouser pocket, and flourishing it towards him. ‘If that ’orse were down in Leicestersheer,’ added he, ‘he’d fetch three ’under’d guineas. Sir Richard would ’ave him in a minnit -- that he would!’ added he, with a stamp of his foot as he saw the animal beginning to set up his back and wince at the approach of the lad. (We may here mention by way of parenthesis, that Mr Buckram had brought him out of Warwicksheer for thirty pounds, where the horse had greatly distinguished himself, as well by kicking off sundry scarlet swells in the gaily-thronged streets of Leamington, as by running away with divers others over the wide-stretching grazing grounds of Southam and Dunchurch.)

But to our story. The horse now stood staring on view: fire in his eye, and vigour in his every limb. Leather at his head, the lad at his side, Sponge and Buckram a little on the left.

‘W--h--o--a--a--y, my man, w--h--o--a--a--y,’ continued Mr Buckram, as a liberal show of the white of the eye was followed by a little wince and hoist of the hindquarters on the nearer approach of the lad.

‘Look sharp, boy,’ said he, in a very different tone to the soothing one in which he had just been addressing the horse. The lad lifted up his leg for a hoist, Leather gave him one as quick as thought, and led on the horse as the lad gathered up his reins. They then made for a large field at the back of the house, with leaping-bars, hurdles, ‘on and offs,’ ‘ins and outs,’ all sorts of fancy leaps scattered about. Having got him fairly in, and the lad having got himself fairly settled in the saddle he gave the horse a touch with the spur as Leather let go his head, and after a desperate plunge or two started off at a gallop.

‘He’s fresh,’ observed Mr Buckram confidentially to Mr Sponge, ‘he’s fresh -- wants work, in short -- short of work -- wouldn’t put everyone on him -- wouldn’t put one o’ your timid cocknified chaps on him, for if ever he were to get the hupper ’and, vy I doesn’t know as ow that we might get the hupper ’and o’ him, agen, but the playful rogue knows ven he’s got a workman on his back -- see how he gives to the lad though he’s only fifteen, and not strong of his hage nouther,’ continued Mr Buckram, ‘and I guess if he had sich a consternation of talent as you on his back, he’d wery soon be as quiet as a lamb -- not that