“Who is that?” he asked his neighbour, whose spurs and gaiters showed that he was likely to know.

The man stared in astonishment at the stranger’s ignorance.  “Why, that’s Jim Holloway, the great Jim Holloway,” said he; then, seeing by the blank look upon Dodds’s face that even this information had not helped him much, he went into details.  “Sure he’s the head of Holloway & Morland, of London,” said he.  “He’s the buying partner, and he buys cheap; and the other stays at home and sells, and he sells dear.  He owns more horses than any man in the world, and asks the best money for them.  I dare say you’ll find that half of what are sold at the Dunsloe fair this day will go to him, and he’s got such a purse that there’s not a man who can bid against him.”

Worlington Dodds watched the doings of the great dealer with interest.  He had passed on now to the two-year-olds and three-year-olds, full-grown horses, but still a little loose in the limb and weak in the bone.  The London buyer was choosing his animals carefully, but having chosen them, the vigour of his competition drove all other bidders out of it.  With a careless nod he would run the figure up five pounds at a time, until he was left in possession of the field.  At the same time he was a shrewd observer, and when, as happened more than once, he believed that someone was bidding against him simply in order to run him up, the head would cease suddenly to nod, the note-book would be closed with a snap, and the intruder would be left with a purchase which he did not desire upon his hands.  All Dodds’s business instincts were aroused by the tactics of this great operator, and he stood in the crowd watching with the utmost interest all that occurred.

It is not to buy young horses, however, that the great dealers come to Ireland, and the real business of the fair commenced when the four and five-year-olds were reached; the full-grown, perfect horses, at their prime, and ready for any work or any fatigue.  Seventy magnificent creatures had been brought down by a single breeder, a comfortable-looking, keen-eyed, ruddy-cheeked gentleman who stood beside the sales-man and whispered cautions and precepts into his ear.

“That’s Flynn of Kildare,” said Dodds’s informant.  “Jack Flynn has brought down that string of horses, and the other large string over yonder belongs to Tom Flynn, his brother.  The two of them together are the two first breeders in Ireland.”  A crowd had gathered in front of the horses.  By common consent a place had been made for Mr. Holloway, and Dodds could catch a glimpse of his florid face and yellow covert-coat in the front rank.  He had opened his note-book, and was tapping his teeth reflectively with his pencil as he eyed the horses.

“You’ll see a fight now between the first seller and the first buyer in the country,” said Dodds’s acquaintance.  “They are a beautiful string, anyhow.  I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t average five-and-thirty pound apiece for the lot as they stand.”