The valet, a staid elderly man, who, as Mr. Tiptop would have said, made a point of “standing in” with all the upper servants, treated the stud-groom with considerable deference. They had exhausted their usual topic of the weather, the probability of sport, and their master’s propensities for repose, and were now beguiling the time by listening at his chamber door alternately, till the welcome sound of much splashing and hard breathing announced that the Honourable had tumbled out of bed into his tub. After awhile the valet gave a low tap at the door, accompanied by a cough. “Who’s there?” said the inmate of the chamber, sedulously drying his elegant proportions before an enormous fire. “Beg your pardon, sir,” answered the well-drilled servant. “Mr. Tiptop, sir, wishes to speak to you, sir.” “Tell him to go to the devil,” rejoined the Honourable, struggling leisurely into a clean shirt. There was no occasion for the polite valet to repeat this message, inasmuch as Mr. Tiptop was there to hear it for himself. The servants looked at each other, and laughed in their sleeve. Presently, the valet, who knew to a second how long each stage of the toilet ought to last, knocked again. “What is it?” murmured the Honourable very indistinctly, for the sufficient reason that he was sedulously brushing his teeth. “Mr. Tiptop, sir, wishes to know if he can see you before you go down to breakfast.” The stud-groom was well aware that no confidential communication could take place during that meal, disturbed as it usually was by the arrival of other late starters, dropping in, to hurry their friend. “Come in,” gurgled the Honourable: and his stud-groom made his appearance, smoothing his shiny head as all grooms do. “What’s the matter, Tiptop?” inquired his master, poising the tooth-brush between finger and thumb. “Are all the horses lame?” “Not so bad as that, sir,” answered Tiptop, respectfully, revolving in his mind how he should begin what he had to say. For all his languor, there was something about Crasher that made people very loath to take a liberty. “I only wanted to tell you, sir, of a horse I’ve seen as you ought to buy. I thought I’d make bold to tell you before any of the other gentlemen got word of him. He’s a flyer, sir—that’s what he is!” Now, in all matters relating to the stable, Mr. Tiptop ruled paramount, the Honourable’s system being to make his groom look out for horses, and if he liked their appearance himself, to buy them at once. With regard to riding, I have already said, he could make them all go, if they had any pretensions to hunters about them. “Whose is he?” was the next question asked; for the Honourable was now finishing his toilet in such a hurry as would have made you suppose he never was late in his life. “Mr. Sawyer’s, sir,” answered Tiptop. “It’s the bay. He’ll be on him to-day at Barkby Holt.”