Indeed, she was glad enough of Richard Marshall’s helpful company when she presently arrived at the Black Horse Inn, where, in spite of the framed poetical effusion which hung beneath the sign, and which testified to the merits of the establishment, there was some difficulty in procuring accommodation and attention for poor Nigger, and even greater in finding a substitute. In fact, the only animal available proved to be a huge rawboned three-year-old, who was with great difficulty persuaded to enter the shafts of the gig, and who, when harnessed, tilted up the vehicle in such a peculiar manner that Rosalie shrank back in alarm. ‘He does n’t look safe,’ she faltered; ‘and I’m quite sure that boy is n’t capable of driving him. I have been shaken by the fright, I suppose, for I feel quite unnerved.’ ‘I will drive you,’ said Richard, with decision, waving aside the lad who had been appointed charioteer and who now began to assert his perfect competence to perform the task. ‘I guess I can manage most things in the way of horseflesh; and in any case I intended to go to my uncle’s to-morrow.’ ‘Oh no; I could n’t think—’ Rosalie was beginning, when he interrupted her eagerly: ‘Nothing will be easier, I assure you; my bag is here, strapped on to my bicycle. I meant to take my uncle by surprise—he does n’t know I am in England. You can send back the horse to-morrow—even if you took the lad, it would be difficult for him to return to-night. My bicycle can stay here until I send for it or fetch it. Perhaps I had better get in first, Mrs. Fiander, to keep this wild animal quiet, while you get up. Hand over the reins here—that’s it; hold on by his head till the lady mounts. Put that machine of mine in a dry place, will you? Now then, Mrs. Fiander, give me your hand. Whoa, boy! Steady! There we are—Let go!’ He laid the whip lightly on the animal’s back, and they were off before Rosalie had had time to protest or to demur.