I don't know if you understand what I mean, but an atmosphere of
wurzels was the thing that somehow he suggested.) "It was a
thoroughbred Welsh pony, as sound a little beast as ever stepped.
I'd had him out to grass all the winter, and one day in the early
spring I thought I'd take him for a run. I had to go to Amersham on
business. I put him into the cart, and drove him across; it is just
ten miles from my place. He was a bit uppish, and had lathered
himself pretty freely by the time we reached the town.
"A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, 'That's a good pony
of yours.'
"'Pretty middling,' I says.
"'It doesn't do to over-drive 'em, when they're young,' he says.
"I says, 'He's done ten miles, and I've done most of the pulling. I
reckon I'm a jolly sight more exhausted than he is.
"I went inside and did my business, and when I came out the man was
still there. 'Going back up the hill?' he says to me.
"Somehow, I didn't cotton to him from the beginning. 'Well, I've
got to get the other side of it,' I says, 'and unless you know any
patent way of getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I
am.'
"He says, 'You take my advice: give him a pint of old ale before you
start.
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