He accepted promptly, and said he would be most happy to go.

Accordingly I told Peter to saddle the toughest-mouthed, hardest-trotting carriage horse in the stable.

Mounted on my swift pony, I took a ten-mile canter as fast as I could go, with that superior being at my heels calling, as he found breath, for me to stop, which I did at last and left him in the hands of Peter, half dead at his hotel, where he will be laid out, with all his marvelous masculine virtues, for a week at least.

Now do not waste your arguments on these prigs from Union College.

Take each, in turn, the ten-miles' circuit on 'Old Boney' and they'll have no breath left to prate of woman's inferiority.