Perhaps the reason is, that in these fast times condition is so much better understood—for we cannot admit the uncomplimentary excuse that hounds do not run now as formerly—why horses _stop_ so much less often in the hunting-field than they did in the palmy days of Musters and Assheton Smith, and “the d—d Quornites,” who were always either “showing” or “being shown the _trick_” some fifty years ago. _Then_ a hunter’s reputation was as fragile as a sultana’s, and was guarded as jealously. Not only must he be “_sans peur_,” but also “_sans reproche_.” And the efforts of these lords to preserve the character of their treasures were as ingenious as they were ludicrous. One facetious nobleman actually got a tired favourite home next day right through the streets of Melton, disguised as the middle horse of a cart-team; nor did all the lynx-eyes, ready to watch for the “casualties” consequent on a clipper, discover the identity of one of the best nags in Leicestershire, under the weather-beaten winkers and shabby harness of a four-horse waggon. Mr. Sawyer trusted to the cloud of night for the same immunity. He had just stabled his steed in the warmest corner of the shed, and, having taken off his own coat to fling over the animal’s heaving quarters, was beginning to speculate on the probable rheumatism that would succeed this imprudence, when, to his astonishment and disgust, the door was darkened by another figure, and his solitude disturbed by the entrance of a man and horse, in all probability seeking the same shelter for the same cause. The new-comer was a remarkably good-looking person, extremely well got-up, particularly as regarded his nether extremities, and our friend at once recognised him as having been very forward with the hounds at different stages of the run. His horse, a well-bred bay, was “done to a turn.” When Sawyer looked at its drooping head and heaving flanks, it seemed to put him quite in conceit with the roan. For a moment neither spoke a word—then the absurdity of the situation seemed to strike them simultaneously, and they both burst out laughing. “What? They’ve cooked _your_ goose as well as mine!” said the stranger, in off-hand tones, producing at the same time a silver cigar-case, on which our friend could not help fancying he descried a coronet, and proceeding to light a most tempting-looking weed. “A very likely day to do it, too,” he added, glancing, as Sawyer thought, somewhat contemptuously at himself and steed. “The pace for the first twenty minutes was _alarming_, and the country awfully deep. I should say you’ll hardly get that horse home to-night.” The suggestion was neither flattering nor consolatory. Mr. Sawyer felt half inclined to be offended; but he thought of the silver cigar-case, and swallowed the retort uncourteous that rose to his lips. He was a true Briton, and not above a weakness for the peerage. “This good-looking man,” he argued, “notwithstanding his black coat, must be a Viscount at least!”