“You don’t seem to see,” continued Toad, “that this fine horse of mine is a cut above you altogether. He’s a blood horse, he is, partly; not the part you see, of course⁠—another part. And he’s been a Prize Hackney, too, in his time⁠—that was the time before you knew him, but you can still tell it on him at a glance, if you understand anything about horses. No, it’s not to be thought of for a moment. All the same, how much might you be disposed to offer me for this beautiful young horse of mine?”

The gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked Toad over with equal care, and looked at the horse again. “Shillin’ a leg,” he said briefly, and turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide world out of countenance.

“A shilling a leg?” cried Toad. “If you please, I must take a little time to work that out, and see just what it comes to.”