We were talking of a horse that had run away. Bettesworth, who had not seen it but knew the owner, observed, “Purty thing 't is, if 't is the same as he've drove over here before. One o' they light-bred 'orses. They be the ones to work. I'd sooner 'ave one o' they than half a dozen cart-'orses for work. Now that 'ere roan o' Jimmy Woods's—five mile an hour he'll walk, up 'ill and down. Up that hill at Redfield you may see 'n with a yard o' sand be'ind; he'll start at the same pace and 'd keep on right up to the top without stoppin', if they'd let 'n—”

“I suppose they don't?”

“No, of course they stops 'n. Why, 't 'd very soon crook he up, gwine like that seven times a day. There 'en't such another like 'n in all the neighbour'ood. He's one o' these light-bred 'orses, an' you can't match 'em. Bad-tempered things they be, though. I see this one o' Jimmy's gwine up the 'ill one day—Jimmy was 'long with 'n his-self. He had n't had 'n long then. ‘Look out,’ I says, ‘he's gwine to kick.’ ‘Gah'n,’ he says. ‘Kick? What do you know about it?’