t it
was impossible to know what was doing.

"'Five, ten--fifteen--six pounds--thank you, sir,--guineas'--'seven
pounds,' said I, bidding against myself, not perceiving that I had spoken
last. 'Thank you, Mr. Moriarty,' said Dycer, turning towards an
invisible purchaser supposed to be in the crowd. 'Thank you, sir, you'll
not let a good one go that way.' Every one here turned to find out the
very knowing gentleman; but he could no where be seen.

"Dycer resumed, 'Seven ten for Mr. Moriarty. Going for seven ten--a
cruel sacrifice--there's action for you--playful beast.' Here the devil
had stumbled and nearly killed a basket-woman with two children.

"'Eight,' said I, with a loud voice.

"'Eight pounds, quite absurd,' said Dycer, almost rudely; 'a charger like
that for eight pounds--going for eight pounds--going--nothing above eight
pounds--no reserve, gentlemen, you are aware of that. They are all as it
were, his majesty's stud--no reserve whatever--last time, eight pounds
--gone.'

"Amid a very hearty cheer from the mob--God knows why--but a Dublin mob
always cheer--I returned, accompanied by a ragged fellow, leading my new
purchase after me with a bay halter. 'What is the meaning of those
letters,' said I, pointing to a very conspicuous G.R. with sundry other
enigmatical signs, burned upon the animal's hind quarter.

"'That's to show he was a po-lice,' said the fellow with a grin; 'and
whin ye ride with ladies, ye must turn the decoy side.'

"The auspicious morning at last arrived; and strange to say that the
first waking thought was of the unlucky day that ushered in my yachting
excursion, four years before. Why this was so, I cannot pretend to
guess; there was but little analogy in the circumstances, at least so far
as any thing had then gone. 'How is Marius?' said I to my servant, as he
opened my shutters. Here let me mention that a friend of the
Kildare-street club had suggested this name from the remarkably classic
character of my steed's countenance; his nose, he assured me, was
perfectly Roman.

"'Marius is doing finely, sir, barring his cough, and the thrifle that
ails his hind legs.'

"'He'll carry me quietly, Simon, eh?'

"'Quietly. I'll warrant he'll carry you quietly, if that's all.'

"Here was comfort. Certainly Simon had lived forty years as pantry boy
with my mother, and knew a great deal about horses. I dressed myself,
therefore, in high spirits; and if my pilot jacket and oil-