Robin had not seen his old master's grandson for years--not since he was a little boy, when Robin had left home--and he pictured him as a dashing and handsome young gentleman, such as he remembered his father before him. As to the horse, not Sir Archy himself had been greater. Robin talked as though he had had the handling of him ever since he was dropped; and he ran over a pedigree that made the boys about him open their wicked eyes. Just then a stable-boy discerned out on the highway across the field a rider, coming along at a swinging trot that raised the dust and shot it in spurts before him. “Yonder he come now!” cried the urchin, with a grimace to attract the attention of the crowd. They looked in the direction indicated, and then in' chorus began to shout. Old Robin turned and glanced indifferently down the road. The next instant he wheeled and his black hand made a clutch at the boy, who dodged behind half a dozen others as a shout of derisive laughter went up from the throng. What Robin saw was only a country lad jogging along on a big raw-boned, blazed-faced horse, whose hipbones could be seen even at that distance. “You know dat ain't my horse!” said the old man, sharply. “You young boys is gittin' too free with you' moufs! Dat horse----” The rest of his speech, however, was lost; for at that moment the horseman turned from the highway into the road to the race-course and came swinging on toward the gate. The gang behind old Robin broke into renewed jeers, but at the same time kept well out of his reach; for the old man's face bore a look that no one dared trifle with, and he had a heavy hand on occasion, as many of them had come to know. His eyes now were fastened on the horse that was rapidly approaching through a cloud of dust on the yellow road, and a look of wonder was growing on his brown face. The rider pulled rein and drew up just outside the open gate, looking down on the group there in some bewilderment Then his eyes lighted up, as the old trainer stepped out and, taking off his hat, put forth his hand. “Uncle Robin!” “My young master.” He took the bridle just as he might have done years before had his old master ridden up to the gate. The act impressed the gang behind him as few things could have done, and though they nudged one another, they fell back and huddled together rather farther away, and only whispered their ridicule among themselves. The boy sprang from the saddle, and the old man took possession of the horse. They were a strange-looking pair, horse and rider, fresh from the country, both of them dusty and travel-stained, and, as the stable-boys whispered among themselves, both “starving for the curry-comb.” The lad passed in at the gate, whipping the dust from his clothes with the switch he carried. “Good-evening, boys.”