His companion—no other than the redoubtable chestnut which Crasher had been riding to covert on his first introduction to our friend—would have been rated as an experienced break-horse by few persons less reckless than his master. He was what is called “a bad starter,” but made up for that deficiency by being as difficult to stop, when once off, as he was at first to set in motion. He had a way, too, of hugging the pole when out of humour, most subversive of his companion’s equanimity. Such tricks were, doubtless, against the progress of Marathon’s education. Altogether a more unpleasant pair, for locomotive purposes, have seldom been “lapped in leather.” There is no proverb more true than that “Where there is no fear, there is no danger.” The Honourable Crasher’s nerves seemed not only totally unsusceptible to the unworthy sensation “Which schoolboys denominate ‘funk,’” but he appeared utterly to ignore the possibility of anything like a casualty wherever horseflesh was concerned. The consequence was that, both in the saddle and on the coach-box, he came scathless out of scrapes that must have been fatal to a man of a more nervous temperament. I will not dwell on the drive from Market Harborough to the Dove-cote—on the tension of Mr. Sawyer’s nerves, and corresponding rigidity of his muscles, whenever the wheel grazed a heap of stones or an ominous bang against the splash-board reminded him that Marathon had not forgotten how to kick. The Boy, indeed—selected for the office as being of light weight—spent most of the journey on the hind-step, prepared for the worst, but was not obliged to get down and run to their heads more than a dozen times in the course of as many minutes, after which they settled to their work and pulled like griffins. It is sufficient to say that, when they arrived at the Rectory door, close on the tracks of the ignominious fly that had preceded them at least half an hour, Mr. Sawyer’s white tie was uncrumpled, and the Honourable’s whiskers still in tolerable curl. There was but one stranger present. The Reverend knew how to give a dinner, or if _he_ didn’t his wife did, and had too much consideration for his Harborough friends to inundate them with a host of country neighbours with whom they were not acquainted. This exception was a widowed cousin of Mrs. Dove’s—a voluble lady, not so young as she had been, wearing her shoulders very bare, her dress very full, and her fair hair puffed out with considerable ingenuity. She was a little rouged, a little made-up, but very good-looking notwithstanding, in a _blonde_, full-blown, boisterous style. A better foil for “Cissy” could scarcely be imagined. This buxom beauty answered to the name of Merrywether, and, to all appearance, would have had no objection to change it.