But stay! We are omitting the horse in this large family-pew-looking box at the end, whose drawn curtains have caused us to overlook him. He is another of the Major’s bad tickets, and one of which he has just become possessed in the following way:— Having—in furtherance of his character of a “thorrer sportsman,” and to preserve the spirit of impartiality so becoming an old master of “haryers”—gone to Sir Moses Mainchance’s opening day, as well as to my Lord’s, Sir Moses, as if in appreciation of the compliment, had offered to give the horse on which his second whip was blundering among the blind ditches. The Major jumped at the offer, for the horse looked well with the whip on him; and, as he accepted, Sir Moses increased the stream of his generosity by engaging the Major to dine and take him away. Sir Moses had a distinguished party to meet him, and was hospitality itself. He plied our Major with champagne, and hock, and Barsac, and Sauterne, and port, and claret, and compliments, but never alluded to the horse until about an hour after dinner, when Mr. Smoothley, the jackal of the hunt, brought him on the _tapis_. “Ah!” exclaimed Sir Moses, as if in sudden recollection, “that’s true! Major, you’re quite welcome to ‘Little-bo-peep,’ (for so he had christened him, in order to account for his inquisitive manner of peering). Your _quite_ welcome to ‘Little-bo-peep,’ and I hope he’ll be useful to you.” “Thank’e, Sir Moses, thank’e!” bobbed the grateful Major, thinking what a good chap the baronet was. “_Not a bit!_” replied Sir Moses, chucking up his chin, just as if he was in the habit of giving a horse away every other day in the week. “_Not a bit!_ Keep him as long as you like—all the season if you please—and send him back when you are done.” Then, as if in deprecation of any more thanks, he plied the wine again, and gave the Major and his “harriers” in a speech of great gammonosity. The Major was divided between mortification at the reduction of the gift into a loan, and gratification at the compliment now paid him, but was speedily comforted by the flattering reception his health, and the stereotyped speech in which he returned thanks, met at the hands of the company. He thought he must be very popular. Then, when they were all well wined, and had gathered round the sparkling fire with their coffee or their Curaçoa in their hands, Sir Moses button-holed the Major with a loud familiar, “I’ll tell ye what, Yammerton! you’re a devilish good feller, and there shall be no obligation between us—you shall just give me forty puns for ‘Little-bo-peep,’ and that’s making you a present of him for it’s a hundred less than I gave.”