"Look here," said the gentleman-jockey, "I must have him. On his back I could win every steeplechase in the kingdom. I'll give you £1,000 for him." "Down?" said Bowes. "Yes," replied the other. "I'll put off to my yacht and fetch it." In an hour the £1,000 in gold and Italian paper was in Bowes's possession. Bowes had explained how it would be unwise to unwrap Mr. Hay's head and neck then, as a cold wind was blowing, and the horse had caught a slight cold on his voyage. The jockey was so overcome by the magnificence of the visible parts of Mr. Hay, and so convinced of the wonderful bargain he had made, that he was content to take the head and neck for granted rather than let him go to the American millionaire; so Mr. Hay was put back in the stable for the night, and one of the yacht's crew left there to see to his safety. Shortly after dark Bowes picked the lock and crept in. Silently he placed a newly-acquired saddle on Mr. Hay's back. [Illustration: "I'LL GIVE YOU £1,000 FOR HIM."] "What now?" whispered Andrew P. Hay. "We must be off at once and cover as many miles as we can before daylight," whispered Bowes. "But," objected Mr. Hay, "this is immoral!" All the refined morality of the ancient Centaurs welled up in him. "Pooh!" whispered Bowes. "Meaning no offence, sir; but it's got to be done!" At this moment the sailor woke and rose to see what was going on. Now, gentleman and man of honour as Mr. Hay was down to the waist, the instinct of battle and self-preservation in his equine portion instantly gained the ascendency in those moments when action was called for; and it was with feelings of the most unfeigned horror and regret that he felt himself backing toward the unhappy sailor and taking up a favourable position for an effective kick. "Bowes!" he said, in an agony of apprehension. "Quick! Don't you see what I'm doing? For Heaven's sake give me a cut over the quarters! Here--pull my head up, so that I can't lash out!" But it was too late; the equine nature situated in the hind-quarters had prevailed: there was an end of the sailor: Andrew P. Hay hid his face in his hands with a bitter sob, and suffered himself to be led out and mounted in silence. "You won't mind my presumption in wearing spurs, sir?" he said, apologetically. "We might want 'em when you get tired." Andrew P. Hay hardly heard the remark; his thoughts were absorbed by the regrettable incident of the sailor; at a touch of the spur he broke mechanically into a gallop, which he continued unbrokenly far into the night. Suddenly he pulled up. "Bowes," he said, "I'm famishing ----. I _must_ have a meal; I've eaten nothing since the day before yesterday!" "All right, sir," replied Bowes, as he prepared to strap on a nose-bag filled with chaff and locust beans; "you shall have a bran-mash as soon as ever we reach----"