“Good!” said he; “devilish good!  Wash off, no matter who throws it—­devilish good!”

Down we came off the gate, and through the mud we went, he leading with a fat chuckle.

“You don’t see the joke, Hawkins—­you don’t see the joke about that fast day;” and he gave me another look with his great blue eyes.

I didn’t know it was a joke; I thought it was the mare’s name, and I heard him mutter “Damn!”

“This is the way,” he said angrily.  We seemed to travel through an interminable cesspool, but at last reached the open, and coming to another gate, he extended his arms on it, after the manner of a squire, and said,—­

“There, there’s Naples.  Isn’t she lovely?”

“Where?” I asked.

“There; and a prettier mare you never saw.  Look at her!”

“She’s a beauty—­a real beauty!” I exclaimed.

He breathed rather short, and I felt easy.  His manner, especially the distending of his cheeks, showed me that he was about to bring forth something—­a pun of some sort.

“Do you know,” he asked, with another turn of his eyes, “why I call her Naples?”

“No, I haven’t the faintest idea.  Naples? no.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ve puzzled a good many.  I may say nobody has ever guessed it.  I call that mare Naples because she’s such a beautiful bay.”

I was glad I was not sitting on the gate, for I might have fallen and broken my neck.  As I felt his eyes staring at me I preserved a dignified composure, and had the satisfaction of hearing him mutter again, “Damn!”

“This is our way,” said he.

I have no doubt he thought me the dullest fool he ever came near.

Our adventures were not ended.  We went on over meadow and stile until we came to “The Park,” a tract of land of great beauty and with trees of superb growth.  He was sullen and moody, like one whose nerves had failed him when a covey rose.

I saw it coming—­his last expiring effort.  In the distance was a beautiful black mare, such as might have carried Dick Turpin from London to York.  He was watching to see if I observed her, but I did not.

“Look,” he said, in his most coaxing manner, “don’t you see that mare yonder—­down there by the spinny?”

“What,” I said, “on the left?”

“Down there!  There—­no, a little to the right.  Look!  There she is.”

“Oh, to be sure, a pretty animal.”

“Pretty!  Why, there’s no better bred animal in the kingdom.  She’s by ——­ out of ——.”

“She ought to win the Oaks.”

“Come, now, isn’t she superb?”

“A glory.  A novelist would call her a dream.”

“Ah, I thought you would say so.  You know what a horse is.”

“When I see one,” I said.  “I thought you said this was a mare.”

This is what the Squire thought,—­

“Well, of all the dull devils I ever met, you are the most utterly unappreciative!”