The inmates of the Park were all at sixes and sevens that morning, Monsieur having left Billy to be valeted by the footman, whose services were entirely monopolised by Cuddy Flintoff and Sir Moses. When he did at length come, he replied to Billy’s enquiry “how his horse was,” that he was “quite well,” which was satisfactory to our friend, and confirmed him in his opinion of the superiority of his judgment over that of Wetun and the rest. Sir Moses, however, who had made the tour of the stables, thought otherwise, and telling the Tiger to put the footboard to the back of the dog-cart, reserved the other place in front for his guest. A tremendous hurry Sir Moses was in to be off, rushing in every two or three minutes to see if Billy wasn’t done his breakfast, and at last ordering round the vehicle to expedite his movements. Then he went to the door and gave the bell such a furious ring as sounded through the house and seemed well calculated to last for ever. Billy then came, hustled along by the ticket-of-leave butler and the excitable footman, who kept dressing him as he went; and putting his mits, his gloves, his shawl, cravat, and his taper umbrella into his hands, they helped him up to the seat by Sir Moses, who forthwith soused him down, by touching the mare with the whip, and starting off at a pace that looked like trying to catch an express train. Round flew the wheels, up shot the yellow mud, open went the lodge gates, bark went the curs, and they were presently among the darker mud of the Marshfield and Greyridge Hill Road. On, on, Sir Moses pushed, as if in extremis. “Well now, how is it to be?” at length asked he, getting his mare more by the head, after grinding through a long strip of newly-laid whinstone: “How is it to be? Can this beggar of yours ride, or can he not?” Sir Moses looking with a scrutinising eye at Billy as he spoke. “Yarse, he can ride,” replied Billy, feeling his collar; “rode the other day, you know.” _Sir Moses_. “Ah, but that’s not the sort of riding I mean. Can he ride across country? Can he ride a steeple-chase, in fact?” _Mr. Pringle_. “Yarse, I should say he could,” hesitated our friend. _Sir Moses_. “Well, but it won’t do to back a man to do a thing one isn’t certain he can do, you know. Now, between ourselves,” continued he, lowering his voice so as not to let the Tiger hear—“Cuddy Flintoff is no great performer—more of a mahogany sportsman than any thing else, and it wouldn’t take any great hand to beat him.”