The “Jovial,” whose shattered nerves could not brook suspense as well as mine, addressing the elaborate exquisite by the familiar abbreviation of “Pop” (his real name was Popham Algernon Adolphus Evergreen, so it _did_ come shorter to call him “Pop”), asked him point-blank, “What they had done with the rest of the party?” to which “Pop” after a vague stare, and an effort to remember where he was, replied, “Party?—Oh!—Aw!—Yes. Some of the fellows were late, and went on at once to the Gorse. Emperor won’t like it (meaning the Earl); but daren’t blow up, because The Slasher’s gone on with ’em.” “The Slasher?” exclaimed Plumtree, turning very red and forgetting in his indignation to be either slang or cool, “Who the devil do you call The Slasher?” “Pop” gathered his wits together once more, and replied imperturbably, “Oh, The Slasher, you know—that Miss Merlin, you know. It’s a name Bight gave her, you know. I’m sure I don’t know why; but he’s a devilish clever fellow, Bight, so they say. It wouldn’t be a bad name for a horse, would it?” “Pop” relapsing into a brown study at this juncture, it was impossible to get anything more satisfactory out of that priceless piece of porcelain-ware; and the “Jovial,” blowing off his indignation in clouds of cigar-smoke, trotted on to have a look at the hounds, young Evergreen running his eye over myself and horse with a supercilious stare that, in my opinion, did no credit to his good manners. A leading duchess, however, in London, had stated her opinion that “Lady Evergreen’s boy was the best-dressed and the most impudent young one of his year;” so “Pop” was very much the fashion in consequence. A little wide of the hounds, in order to do no mischief, and a little clear of the horses, lest the four-year-old should prove too handy with his heels, I observe my former acquaintance Tips, the rough-rider, in the full glory of his profession. He had so completely singled himself out from the crowd, that he could not but attract attention. Rather neater in his dress than when I had seen him last, and with a clean white neckcloth of clerical proportions, Mr. Tips sat down in the saddle as no man but a professional horse-breaker ever _does_ sit—an attitude only to be acquired by the habit of keeping constantly on his guard against the agreeable varieties of rearing, kicking, plunging, turning round, and lying down, adopted by a thoroughly refractory pupil when his “dander” is up. Tips, prepared for any or all of these vagaries at a moment’s notice, kept his knees well forward, his feet home in the stirrups, his hands apart, holding the reins rather long, for he likes, he says, “to give them plenty of rope” when they begin throwing their heads about, and his short sturdy cutting whip ready in his right.