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two of them—any two men in the kingdom. But can I take you with me? Can I be of any service? Command me. There is all the room in the world in the coach.’
    ‘You are very kind, my lord,’ said FitzGerald in a low voice, ‘and you can put me exceedingly in your debt if you wish …’ They moved a little way along the road, Lord Culmore wearing a perturbed expression. Peter withdrew in the other direction, whispering fiercely to Sean, ‘Don’t stare, for all love, you ill-shaped great cow.’
    ‘Well,’ said FitzGerald, as the dust rose again behind the vanishing coach, ‘now you may call me an ass if you wish.’
    ‘Oh?’ said Peter, closing his eyes.
    ‘Yes. The sordid old screw would not part with better than ten.’
    ‘Ten guineas? Hoo! Glory above,’ cried Sean.
    ‘Will you close your mouth now?’ said Peter, with a great smile spreading in spite of all he could do to look sober and grave.
    But Sean would not be quiet yet. He continued, ‘Had I known his honour could lay a gold piece, sure I would have begged to run against that Thomas at even odds.’
    ‘Why, and so you could, too,’ said Peter, reflecting.
    ‘Can he run?’ asked FitzGerald.
    ‘Can he run?’ said Peter, dusting his hands. ‘Can he run? He could run that poor stick-carrying creature into the earth and back again without drawing breath.’
    ‘Is it true?’ cried FitzGerald.
    ‘Yes, it is,’ said Peter, with staggering positiveness. ‘And have I not seen him take up a hare in his hand, and the hare running on a hill the way hares go their fastest?’
    ‘To think I have let such a match slip through my hands,’ said FitzGerald, beating his forehead. ‘Culmore would have laid a hundred—two hundred. And we might have gone to Cork in our own coaches. Oh, it is very hard to bear.’
    ‘Still,’ he said, after a silence, ‘there is our next dinner for sure. Which is something.’ And he laid the ten pieces in a row on the milestone.
    They considered the disposal of the sum, reckoning up their expenses with anxious addition. But it became apparent that once their bills at the inn were paid there would not be enough left to unpawn both horses—FitzGerald had sold his outright.
    ‘Then it must be Placidus,’ said Peter, charmed with the certainty of redeeming the creature.
    ‘But come,’ said FitzGerald, ‘did you not say that Liam’s nag was a stout beast that could carry two?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And this other one can’t?’
    ‘He could up to ten years ago, but truly he does not care for a pillion now.’
    ‘Ten years ago? Good heavens, how old is he at all?’
    ‘Oh, he was long past mark of mouth when I was a little boy,’ said Peter. ‘I suppose he must be rising twenty-five or so.’
    ‘Oh,’ said FitzGerald, and he muttered something in which the words ‘knacker’s yard’ and ‘museum’ could just be distinguished.
    ‘He is a remarkably fine horse for his age,’ said Peter eagerly, ‘and if you know how to ride him, and if he likes you, he can trot very well. You only have to take care not to bear on his withers, and to talk to him all the time, encouragingly, you know, and he will go on amazingly.’
    ‘You have to talk to him all the time?’
    ‘Yes. In Latin, of course. My father has always recited Virgil aloud as he rides about the parish, and Placidus is used to it. Then when my father goes to sleep, which he does sometimes, Placidus stops so that he will not fall off. So you have to keep talking, or he thinks it his duty to stop. Oh, and I had almost forgot: when it is your turn to ride you must never menace him, or he bites you and then lies down. But apart from that and his bowl of bread and milk in the morning—’
    ‘Bread and milk?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Peter earnestly. ‘Just sufficiently warm; not hot, you understand, but just loo-warm. He cannot digest oats or hay in the morning. Nor beans.’
    ‘I see,’ said FitzGerald. ‘No beans in the morning.’
    ‘Just so,’ said Peter,