Now considerable anxiety had already been excited amongst the grooms of Harborough concerning the powers of the said bay horse. Old Isaac, by an affectation of extreme secrecy, had led one and all to believe there was what they termed “something up” about Marathon; and it was but that morning the Major’s faithful bât-man had thought it right to give his master a hint that “Muster Sawyer had one as they were keepin’ _dark_,” so that the subject created immediate interest amongst the party. Mr. Savage put down the evening paper, behind which he had been observing his friends, with a certain satirical amusement; Struggles paused in the act of raising his tumbler to his lips; and even the Honourable Crasher roused himself sufficiently to turn in his rocking-chair, and gaze with an expression of sleepy curiosity at the owner of the mysterious bay horse. Major Brush pursued his inquiries: “Have you ever hunted him?” said he, “or do you keep him to look at?” Dark and grim on Mr. Sawyer’s mind rose many a vision of disappointment and discomfiture, and sporting casualties, such as come under the generic term “grief,” originating in Marathon’s incapacity; but he only replied— “I’ve too few to keep any for show. I leave that to you swells with your large studs. All mine are forced to come out in their turn.” The careful ambiguity of our friend’s answer put the whole company on the _qui vive_. There was evidently something about this nag that was to be _kept dark_. Even Struggles, the simplest and frankest of men, began to think Mr. Sawyer was what he called “a deep ’un.” The astute Savage now stepped in for cross-examination. “Shall you enter one for our steeple-chase, Sawyer?” said he, with an off-hand air. “Anything that can _really_ gallop would be sure to win; and as it is to be entirely amongst ourselves, and we shall all ride, it will be rather good fun.” “When is it?” asked Mr. Sawyer, with admirable simplicity, as if this very steeple-chase, and a certain ball which he had made up his mind to attend, were not the two topics by which he had of late been chiefly engrossed. Everybody now spoke at once. “Time not fixed,” said one. “Directly the weights are out,” said another. “Whenever we can find a handicapper to give _universal_ satisfaction,” sneered a third; whilst the Honourable Crasher, turning once more in the rocking-chair, and losing a slipper in the effort, quietly remarked, he “would take ten to one even then that he named the winner.” “Take him, Sawyer!” exclaimed Major Brush. “Take him at once! and enter the bay horse. Owners to ride, of course. He’s got nothing but Chance, now that Catamount’s lame,” added the gallant officer, in a stage whisper, and with a degree of friendly _empressement_ born of rosy wine.