The horse was a strawberry roan colour, remarkable for his action and the spirit with which he went through a journey. His ears were short enough, for, in accordance with a barbarous practice of that day, they were cropped; few that ever knew the horse could forget him; in harness he carried himself as proudly as if he had been trained to exhibit his beauty, but this was his constant habit; his spirit was such, that he was never touched with a whip, and never exhibited the least disposition to restiveness; free, easy, gentle, noble, swift, untiring, graceful, and grand--he was admired wherever he went; and the short coachman, who occasionally used to ride him, made him, a sixteen-hand horse, look at least a hand higher. What an object was Margaret Catchpole upon him! Her spirit was up as well as Crop's; her resolution to go through all she had undertaken was fixed, and in reply to John Cook's question, when they came to the paddock-gate, "Are you ready, Margaret?" she replied, "Quite ready!" "And now, off with you," said the fellow, as he opened the gate. "Remember the 'Dog and Bone.' A hundred guineas for the horse, and you will be a happy woman;" and off started poor Margaret at a sweeping pace for the London road. St. Margaret's clock struck one, just as she passed the front of that house in which she had lived so much respected, and in which, unconscious of her guilt, slept the kindest master and mistress that a servant ever knew. But Margaret rode on, reckless of all the ills that might await her, and thinking only of the lover that she was to meet at the end of her mad journey. The guard of the mail-coach observed to the driver of the Ipswich mail, as Margaret met it, about two miles before she reached Colchester, "That's Mr. Cobbold's Crop horse! There must be something the matter in the family by the pace the groom is going. Did you see the fellow's stable-dress up to his knees? There's something amiss, or the horse is stolen." When he came to Ipswich, the man mentioned the circumstance at the coach-office, and said he was positive something was wrong. Mr. Bailey, the postmaster, immediately sent a messenger with a note, to inform Mr. Cobbold that the guard had met some one riding his horse very fast on the London road. It was five o'clock when the man rang loudly at the porch-bell; the footman came down in a great hurry and carried up the note to his master's room, who quickly ordered him to go to the stable and see if George Teager and the horses were safe. He ran to the stable, and true enough, he found the Crop horse gone. He called out to George, whom, at first, he suspected of having gone off with the horse, "Hullo, George; Crop is gone!" The old man jumped up. "What's the matter? Who calls?" "One of the horses is stolen, George; you must come down immediately; it was met two miles this side of Colchester!"