“Yes,” said Binns “I have a horse, and there’s not another like him on the island,” (these men always meant Van Diemen’s Land when they said “the island,” forgetting occasionally that they had crossed the straits, and were in a land of freedom) “as good a goer as ever carried a saddle, or wore a collar.  I wouldn’t sell him on no account, only you see I’m hard up just now.”

“What is his age?” I enquired.

“Well, he’s just rising ten.  He has been used a bit hard, but you won’t overwork him, and he’ll do all the law business you want as easy as winking.  He’s the best trotter on the island, and has won many a stake for me.  When I took Johnny-come-lately to gaol in Melbourne for stealing him, he brought me back in less time than any horse ever did the distance before or since.  And you can have him dirt cheap.  I’ll take ten pounds for him, and he’s worth twenty pounds of any man’s money.”

Lovers’ vows and horsedealers’ oaths are never literally true; it is safer to receive them as lies.  I thought it would be prudent to try this trotter before buying him, so Binns signed an order, in a very shaky hand, to the man in charge of his farm, to let me have the horse on trial.  When I harnessed and put him in between the shafts he was very quiet indeed.  I took a whip, not for the purpose of using it, but merely for show; a horse that had won so many races would, of course, go without the lash.

When I was seated and requested him to start, he began walking very slowly, as if he had a load of two tons weight behind him, and I never weighed so much as that.  I had to use the whip, and at last after a good deal of reflection he began to trot, but not with any speed; he did not want to win anything that day.  I remarked that his ears looked dead; no sound or sight of any kind disturbed the peace of his mind.  He evidently knew this world well and despised it; nothing in it could excite his feelings any more.

Halfway up the Water Road I met Bill Mills, a carrier.  He stopped his team and looked at mine.

“Have you bought that horse, Mister?” he said.

“Not yet; I am only trying him,” I replied.  “Do you know him?”

“Know him?  I should think I did.  That’s old Punch.  I broke him into harness when he was three off.  He nearly killed me; ran away with me and my dog-cart among the scrub at the racecourse swamp, and smashed it against a honeysuckle.”

“Is that long ago?” I enquired.

“Long ago?  Let me see.  That horse is twenty year old if he’s a day.  He’ll not run away with you now; no fear; he’s quite safe.  Good-day, Mister.  Come on, Star;” and Bill touched his leader with his whip.

When I arrived at the court-house, I made a search in the cause list book, and found that Johnny-come-lately had been sent to gaol just sixteen years before for stealing Old Punch, so I restored that venerable trotter to its owner.