“Amiss (hiccup)—unwell—don’t like his (hiccup) looks,” replied the groom, rolling past the stable-door where he was. “Oh, beg pardon,” exclaimed he, bumping against Billy on turning short back, as he suddenly recollected himself; “Beg pardon, he’s in here,” added he, fumbling at the door. It was locked. Then, oh dear, he hadn’t got the (hiccup) key, then (hiccup); yes, he had got the (hiccup) key, as he recollected he had his coat on, and dived into the pocket for it. Then he produced it; and, after making several unsuccessful pokes at the key-hole, at length accomplished an entry, and Billy again saw Napoleon the Great, now standing in the promised two-stalled stable along with Sir Moses’s gig mare. To a man with any knowledge of horses, Napoleon certainly did look very much amiss—more like a wooden horse at a harness-maker’s, than an animal meant to go,—stiff, with his fore-logs abroad, and an anxious care-worn countenance continually cast back at its bearing flanks. “Humph!” said Billy, looking him over, as he thought, very knowingly. “Not so much amiss, either, is he?” “Well, sir, what you think,” replied Wetun, glad to find that Billy didn’t blame him for his bad night’s lodgings. “Oh, I dare say he’ll be all right in a day or two,” observed Billy, half inclined to recommend his having his feet put into warm water. “Ope so,” replied Wetun, looking up the horse’s red nostrils, adding, “but he’s not (hiccup) now, somehow.” Just then a long reverberating crack sounded through the courtyard, followed by the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and Wetun exclaiming, “_Here be Sir Moses!_” dropped the poor horse’s head, and hurried ont to meet his master, accompanied by Billy. “Ah, Pringle!” exclaimed Sir Moses, gaily throwing his leg over his horse’s head as he alighted. “Ah, Pringle, my dear fellow, what, got you?” “Well, what sport?” demanded Cuddy Flintoff, rushing up with eager anxiety depicted on his face. “Very good,” replied Sir Moses, stamping the mud off his boots, and then giving himself a general shake; “very good,” repeated he; “found at Lobjolt Corse—-ran up the banks and down the banks, and across to Beatie’s Bog, then over to Deep-well Rocks, and back again to the banks.” “_Did you kill?_” demanded Cuddy, not wanting to hear any more about the banks—up the banks or down the banks either.