AN unshaved face, blotched and parti-coloured from waning inebriety, upturned and open-mouthed in all the imbecility of profound sleep; a recumbent form snoring loudly under a patchwork quilt, and supported by a rickety bedstead, on an uncarpeted floor, in a room with a sloping roof, of which the only furniture seemed to be a box, originally intended for horse-clothing; a five-pound saddle, a pair of spurs, and a black bottle containing a tallow candle that had guttered itself out some two hours previously—all this does not sound like a cheerful and inspiriting scene about five o’clock on a winter’s morning. Nevertheless, such did not fail to call a grim smile into Isaac’s harsh countenance, as he contemplated it, on this, his first visit to Mr. Tiptop’s apartment. Isaac had been revolving the swell stud-groom’s proposal of the evening before, and had come to a decision in his own mind ere he went to sleep, the result of which was his matutinal appearance in the chamber I have endeavoured to describe. He was not a man to waste much time in the contemplation even of a more agreeable sight than that which now met his eyes. He shook Mr. Tiptop roughly by the shoulder till that worthy sat up in bed, and blinked at his visitor’s candle with a ludicrous expression of astonishment and dismay. “What’s up?” he exclaimed at last, as he began to be sensible of the old man’s identity. “Blessed if I didn’t think the stables was a-fire, and all our horses grilling, till I see it was you. Will you take any refreshment?” added Mr. Tiptop jocosely, pointing to an earthenware ewer containing cold water—and not much of that; “or is there anything I can do for you besides telling you what o’clock it is?” he added, yawning, and betraying strong symptoms of a desire to go to sleep again. Old Isaac laid his finger to his nose. “Get up,” said he in a cautious whisper. “It _is_ just to know _what’s o’clock_ as I’ve come here. You lay your hand on a fourteen-pound saddle, and there need be no mistake about the weights. My nag’s ready, and turned round. You go and get yourn. There’s a bit o’ moon left: not quite burned down yet. We can get it over and done with, and the horses back in the stable afore the others is up.” Mr. Tiptop was a man of considerable energy when anything like a robbery was on the cards: he was, however, hardly prepared for such a display of alacrity on the part of his companion. He put one skinny leg out of bed, and then paused, staring vaguely at his visitor. “Come, look alive!” said old Isaac, fishing a pair of breeches from the floor; “there ain’t a minute to lose. Where’s the key o’ _your_ stable?” The weaker nature obeyed instinctively: Tiptop put on his breeches, and produced the key,