but he rides very little now

“I like to hear you talk,” said James, “that’s the way we lay it down at home, at our master’s.” “Who is your master, young man? if it be a proper question. I should judge he is a good one, from what I see.” “He is Squire Gordon, of Birtwick Park, the other side the Beacon Hills,” said James. “Ah! so, so, I have heard tell of him; fine judge of horses, ain’t he? the best rider in the county.” “I believe he is,” said James, “but he rides very little now, since the poor young master was killed.” “Ah! poor gentleman; I read all about it in the paper at the time. A fine horse killed, too, wasn’t there?” “Yes,” said James; “he was a splendid creature, brother to this one, and just like him.” “Pity! pity!” said the old man; “’twas a bad place to leap, if I remember; a thin fence at top, a steep bank down to the stream, wasn’t it? No chance for a horse to see where he is going. Now, I am for bold riding as much as any man, but still there are some leaps that only a very knowing old huntsman has any right to take. A man’s life and a horse’s life are worth more than a fox’s tail; at least, I should say they ought to be.” During this time the other man had finished Ginger and had brought our corn, and James and the old man left the stable together. The Fire Later on in the evening a traveler’s horse was brought in by the second hostler, and while he was cleaning him a young man with a pipe in his mouth lounged into the stable to gossip. “I say, Towler,” said the hostler, “just run up the ladder into the loft and put some hay down into this horse’s rack, will you? only lay down your pipe.” “All right,” said the other, and went up through the trapdoor; and I heard him step across the floor overhead and put down the hay. James came in to look at us the last thing, and then the door was locked.