He had a thin, keen, delicate face, a nose very carefully finished, a rapid eye, a trifle hard in expression, and a small mustache, a good deal cultivated. He was not striking, but he was very positive, and it was easy to see that he was full of purpose.
"How many horses have you got—about forty?" his compatriot inquired, in response to his greeting.
"About five hundred," said Jackson Lemon.
"Did you mount your friends—the three you were riding with?"
"Mount them? They have got the best horses in England."
"Did they sell you this one?" Sidney Feeder continued, in the same humorous strain.
"What do you think of him?" said his friend, not deigning to answer this question.
"He's an awful old screw; I wonder he can carry you."
"Where did you get your hat?" asked Dr. Lemon, in return.
"I got it in New York. What's the matter with it?"
"It's very beautiful; I wish I had bought one like it."
"The head's the thing—not the hat. I don't mean yours, but mine. There is something very deep in your question; I must think it over."
"Don't—don't," said Jackson Lemon; "you will never get to the bottom of it. Are you having a good time?"
