‘Bad enough,’ said the man gloomily. ‘Never mind me, sir, for a minute or two. I’ll come to the house, and tell you all about it directly I’ve saddled Ben Bolt.’ Then, repressing with an effort all trace of previous emotion, and permitting his features to regain their usual expression, he proceeded to catch and lead to the stable that determined animal, whose spirit had by no means been permanently softened by adversity, as was exhibited by his snorting and trembling as usual when the rein was passed over his neck and the bridle put on. Having done this, Mr. Windsor carefully saddled up, and shortly afterwards appearing in his best suit of clothes, strapped a small roll to the saddle, and rode quietly up to the verandah of the cottage. ‘I see that something unusual has happened,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, with sympathy in his voice. ‘Tell me all about it.’ ‘You’ll see it here,’ said his retainer, handing over a short and simple letter from Carrie Walton, in which the impending tragedy of a woman’s life-drama was briefly told. In a few sorrowful words the girl told how that worked upon by the continuous persuasions and reproaches of her parents, she had consented to marry Mr. Homminey on the following Friday week. She had not heard from him, John Windsor, for a long time—perhaps he had forgotten her. In a few days it would be too late, etc. But she was always his sincere friend and well-wisher, Caroline Walton. ‘You see, sir,’ began Mr. Windsor, with something of his old confidence and cool calculation of difficulties in an emergency which required instant bodily exertion, ‘it’s been this way. I’ve been so taken up with these new cattle, and the way everything’s been changed lately, since the weather broke, that I’ve forgot to write to the poor thing. I was expecting to go down with the first lot of fat cattle next month, and I laid it out to square the whole matter, and bring her back with me, if you’ll give us the hut by the river bank to live in. I’ve been a little late—or it looks like it—and they’ve persuaded her into marrying that pumpkin-headed, corn-eating Hawkesbury hog, just because he’s got a good farm and some money in the bank. But if I can get down before the time, if it’s only half an hour, she’ll come to me, and I think I can win the heat if Ben Bolt doesn’t crack up.’ ‘What time have you to spare between this and the day of the wedding?’ inquired Ernest. ‘It’s to be on Friday week,’ said Jack. ‘You can never be there in time—it is impossible!’ cried Ernest in a tone of voice which showed his sympathy with his faithful servant. ‘I pity you sincerely, John!’ ‘Pity be hanged, sir. You’ll excuse my way of talking. I’m a little off my head, I know; what I mean to say is, I ain’t one of those chaps that can grub upon pity, and the likes of it. But I _can_ do it, if the old horse holds out, and luckily Joe’s been riding him regular since the feed came, and he’s fit to race a mile, or travel a hundred, any day.’