A great gray horse, led by little Jerry, was feeling his way through the stable-door. Banjo stood seventeen hands or over, but he was all quality. His long neck was hog-maned; and his Roman nose and sober colour gave him an air of wisdom and experience which a somewhat frivolous character belied. Young Lollypop, a brown three-year-old, followed demurely behind. For all his sixteen hands, he looked a mere stripling beside the gray; but he was far too tall for the girl to mount without assistance. Stanley went for a bucket, but before he could return Silver had shot the girl into the saddle, and stood a moment looking up at her with eyes in which laughter and admiration mingled. The girl seemed so slight and yet so masterful on these great larruping thoroughbreds she always rode! Young Lollypop had the callow and awkward ways of a young giraffe, but, though only a three-year-old, he was sedate as an old maid and had the dignity of a churchwarden. His behaviour was an example to his flippant colleague. For Banjo, directly he felt his master on his back, began to galumph about the yard with a clatter of hoofs among the injured fan-tails and to the discomfiture of Maudie. "Right!" grunted Silver, settling into his saddle. "Now, you old hog, you!" Brown Lollypop cocked his long ears and watched with pained disapproval the gambols of his elder. Himself incorruptible, he was no doubt well pleased at heart that Banjo's misconduct should throw up in high relief his own immaculate conduct. Lollypop was in fact a bit of a prig. Had he been a boy he would have been head of his school, a Scholar of Balliol, and President of the Union at his University. The girl followed her leader through the gate, the brown horse stepping gingerly, swinging his tail, and feeling his bit, while Banjo galumphed and grunted to the sound of a squeaking leather. The meet was at Folkington Green, at the foot of the Downs on the edge of the low country. Once in the road, Silver and the girl turned their backs on the sea and made through the village. Just outside it a familiar figure was waiting them on the road, apologetic and pleading. "I knew he would," said Boy. "He started with father and got turned back. Now he's waiting for us. _Go back, you bad dog!_" "Poor boy!--he wants a bit of a hunt, too," said the young man. "I'll hunt him!" cried the girl remorselessly, and proceeded to do so with vigour. It was some time before the dog was routed and they were free to pursue their way. "What's the time?" asked the girl. Silver referred to his wrist-watch. "It's nearly half-past eleven." "We must trot," said Boy.