Isaac’s face altered not a muscle, nor did the eyes twinkle now, while he replied gravely, “If I was in your shoes, Mr. Tiptop, _this_ is what I’d do—I’d put him into this here race sure-lie, and _lay agin him for the very shirt on my back_!” And like the Pythian of old, Isaac having thus delivered himself, could by no means be brought back to the subject. If Mr. Tiptop had looked puzzled when he entered the veteran’s saddle-room, the expression of his countenance, as he emerged from it, was that of a man whom mystery has so completely enfolded in her web, that he has no energy left to make an effort for escape. That he was so utterly bamboozled as to have recourse to his own master, thus risking his authority over the Honourable for ever after, may be gathered from the conversation held between the latter and Mr. Sawyer over their last cigar, before separating for the night, about two P.M. The Honourable, with an air of cordial approval, as that of a man who is paying another a well-merited compliment, drawls out— “That’s an awful brute you sold me, Sawyer,—that bay of yours. You were quite right to part with him. My fellow tells me he can’t go a yard: wants me to ride him myself; told him I’d rather not, if I can _walk_ as fast. Do you think there’s anything wrong with him, or used he _always_ to gallop as if his legs were tied?” This is not a very easy question for the former owner to answer, asked, as it is, in the Honourable’s off-hand careless manner. Mr. Sawyer thinks of trying the “virtuous indignation” tack; reflects that under the circumstances it would only make him ridiculous, and that thoroughly to carry it out, he ought to be prepared to take back the horse, a measure that in his wildest moments he has never contemplated, and finally subsides into a good-humoured smile, and affirms— “We thought him a fair horse enough in the Old Country. Perhaps he don’t shine so bright amongst your clippers. He’s a sound, good-constitutioned beast, too, and _never_ off his feed; that I can answer for, and you’ve seen him jump. I am sorry you don’t like him; but if you wanted a racehorse, you know, that sort of thing is quite out of my line.” The Honourable, who is good-nature itself, laughs heartily. “I don’t hate him as much as Tiptop does; and if worst comes to worst, he’s good-looking enough for harness. By the bye, old fellow, do you dine over at Dove-cote to-morrow?” “Well, I’ve been _asked_” replied our friend, as if he hadn’t set his heart upon going, and been thinking of it ever since. “Why?” he adds, smothering a blush, as he thinks his companion may have found out his secret, and is laughing in his sleeve.