“I’m going as far as Market Harborough,” he observed meekly. “It cannot be more than seven or eight miles. I shall hope to accomplish that.” “Lucky for _you_!” replied the other. “I want to get to Melton, if I can. I’ve a hack here at Welford, if this beggar can take me there. He’s short of work, poor devil! and could hardly wag coming up the hill. I should say _your_ horse would die.” This was an unpleasant and rather startling way of putting the matter. Mr. Sawyer had not indeed considered it from that point of view. Though a man of energy, he felt somewhat helpless; as who would not in a similar position? Eight miles from home, in a strange country, encumbered with a dying horse! “What had I better do?” inquired he, rather plaintively, of the unknown. Nobleman though he were, the latter seemed to be an energetic personage enough, and pretty familiar with the usages of the stable. Between them they made poor Hotspur as comfortable as circumstances would admit, the unknown conversing with great condescension and volubility the whole time. “What you want for this country,” said he, rubbing away the while at Hotspur’s ears and forehead, “is a strong stud. If you’ve sport hereabouts, it pulls the horses so to pieces. Now this is a nice little well-bred horse enough, but he hasn’t _size_, you see, and scope; there’s nothing of him; consequently, when you drop into a run, he goes as long as he _can_, and it’s all U P! _Mine_, now, would have gone on for ever, if he’d had _condition_; but I only bought him ten days ago, and he’s never had a gallop. Nothing like _good_ ones—_big_ ones—and plenty of ’em! Look at him now; he’s getting better every moment.” Without subscribing entirely to this statement, Mr. Sawyer humbly asked his new friend if he himself was very strong in horses? “Not _very_,” was the reply. “I’ve got eleven, however, at my place, which I shall be very happy to show you whenever you like to come over. Every one of them up to more than your weight,” he added, casting his eye over Mr. Sawyer’s much-bemired figure. “I shall be happy to give you a mount on any one of them you fancy; and you will know them better than I can tell you.” Our friend was penetrated with gratitude. Visions stole over him of an eligible acquaintance, that would soon ripen into friendship, with this most affable of peers; of a charming country-house, agreeable women, billiards, music, dry champagne, and flirtation—himself an honoured guest; of an introduction, perhaps, through his noble ally, into the best London society and everything that he had always thought most desirable, but hitherto considered beyond his reach. “Doubtless,” reasoned Mr. Sawyer, “he has remarked _my riding_, and taken a fancy to me. On further observation, he finds my manners are those of a perfect gentleman; and he is determined we shall become friends. How lucky Hotspur was so beat that I came in here!”