By some mysterious law of nature, whenever one individual succeeds either in what is termed _pounding_ a field, or in getting such a start of them that nobody shall have a chance of catching him whilst the pace holds—and this, be it observed, is no everyday occurrence in countries where the best riders in England congregate for the express purpose of riding as well as they can—it invariably happens that the immediate failure of scent, or some such untoward contingency, robs the lucky one of his anticipated triumph. On the present occasion, much to Mr. Sawyer’s delight, they never hit off their fox again. By degrees, the tail of the field straggled up, having found their way by every available gate and gap; then came the second-horses, carefully ridden, cool, and comparatively clean, not having turned a hair; lastly, arrived a man in a gig, by a convenient bridle-road, hotter than any one present, wiping his face on a coloured handkerchief, which he afterwards put in the crown of his hat. Whilst sandwiches were being munched, and silver horns drained of their contents, ginger-cordial, orange-brandy, V.O.P.,[1] and other enticing fluids, Mr. Sawyer was giving The Boy stringent orders about taking Marathon home. He could not feel thoroughly comfortable till that impostor was fairly out of sight, and he should find himself established on the unassuming little grey. Footnote 1: Very Old Pale—a tempting label attached to certain black bottles containing the best French brandy; an excellent liquor, doubtless, and wholesome, _provided_ you don’t drink too much of it. Opinions vary, however, as to what is _too much_. The modest quencher of 9 P.M. growing to a superfluous stimulant at the same hour the following morning. When he had made up his mind, the Honourable Crasher was a man of few words. Refreshed by a mouthful of sherry, not unacceptable after a rattling fall, and comfortably perched on the back of Confidence, a delightful animal that a child could ride, and perhaps the best and safest hunter in his stable, he ranged alongside of our friend, and plunged at once _in medias res_. “So you want to sell the bay horse you have just sent home?” said he, with none of the hesitation and beating about the bush to which Mr. Sawyer had hitherto been accustomed in his horse-dealing operations. “If you do, and will name the price you ask for him, I should like to buy him.” The owner could not resist the impulse of enhancing the value of his horse, by affecting unwillingness to sell him and, in so doing, nearly lost the chance of disposing of him, altogether. “I don’t think I ought to part with him,” said he reflectively; “it strikes me he’s about the best in my stable.”