"Remember that picture in Shakespeare of 'White Surry'?
Or it was in Shakespeare till you tore it out to start a fire, that wet night; remember?
The arch in his neck, and all?
I hadn't gone a mile on him till I was calling him Surry; and say, Jack, he's a wonder! Come out and take a look at him.

Can't be more than four years old, and gentle as a kitten.

That poor devil knew how to train a horse, even if he didn't have any sense about whisky.

I'll bet money couldn't have touched him if the man had been sober." He stopped in the doorway and looked up and down the street with open disgust.

"Come on down to Picardo's, Jack; what the deuce is there here to hold you?
How a man that knows horses and the range, can stand for this--" he waved a gloved hand at the squalid street--"is something I can't understand.