“If you’ve got a green horse as you’re not very confident on at strong timber,” said Mr. Trotter, about the fourth glass of brandy-and-water, “you tackle him _my_ way. You take him out o’ Sundays or any afternoon as you’ve nothing particular to do, and pick him out some real _stiff_ ones. Give him two or three _good heavy falls_, and I’ll warrant you’ll have very little trouble afterwards. That’s the way to make ’em _rise_!—ain’t it, Mr. Crasher?” After such a night’s amusement as I have described, gentlemen are apt to be later in the morning than they originally proposed. Our belated travellers had intended getting back to their quarters at Harborough by eight or nine o’clock, there to make their toilets, discuss their breakfasts, and so proceed to covert methodically as usual, in time to meet Mr. Tailby’s clipping pack at Carlton Clump. It was nine, however, before either of them was stirring, and then the hospitable Trotter, who was himself going to hunt, and who came in from shepherding as rosy and fresh as if he had never seen brandy-and-water in his life, would not hear of their going away without breakfast. Altogether they did not get clear of Trotter’s Lodge much before ten o’clock, and as they drove out of the farmyard they had the mortification of seeing their entertainer mounted on his four-year-old (“Fancy riding a four-year-old after such a night!” thought Mr. Sawyer) on his way to the meet. “And we’ve got to go home and dress, and then come all this way back again,” moralised the Honourable. “I say, Sawyer, I wish I could make this beggar go as fast as we did last night,” and Crasher smiled at the recollection, as a man smiles who recalls some peaceful scene of his youth, or some good action which he will never find cause to repent.