made at seven o'clock. Nor was his
Lordship's servant up,--so that Tifto had no means of getting at him
except by personal invasion of the sanctity of his bedroom. But there
was no time, not a minute, to be lost. Now, within this minute that
was pressing on him, Tifto must choose his course. He opened the door
and was standing at the young man's head.

"What the d---- does this mean?" said his Lordship angrily, as soon
as his visitor had succeeded in waking him. Tifto muttered something
about the horse which Silverbridge failed to understand. The young
man's condition was by no means pleasant. His mouth was furred by the
fumes of tobacco. His head was aching. He was heavy with sleep, and
this intrusion seemed to him to be a final indignity offered to him
by the man whom he now hated. "What business have you to come in
here?" he said, leaning on his elbow. "I don't care a straw for the
horse. If you have anything to say send my servant. Get out!"

"Oh;--very well," said Tifto;--and Tifto got out.

It was about an hour afterwards that Tifto returned, and on this
occasion a groom from the stables, and the young Lord's own servant,
and two or three other men were with him. Tifto had been made to
understand that the news now to be communicated, must be communicated
by himself, whether his Lordship were angry or not. Indeed, after
what had been done his Lordship's anger was not of much moment. In
his present visit he was only carrying out the pleasant little plan
which had been arranged for him by Captain Green. "What the mischief
is up?" said Silverbridge, rising in his bed.

Then Tifto told his story, sullenly, doggedly, but still in a
perspicuous manner, and with words which admitted of no doubt. But
before he told the story he had excluded all but himself and the
groom. He and the groom had taken the horse out of the stable,
it being the animal's nature to eat his corn better after slight
exercise, and while doing so a nail had been picked up.

"Is it much?" asked Silverbridge, jumping still higher in his bed.
Then he was told that it was very much,--that the iron had driven
itself into the horse's frog, and that there was actually no
possibility that the horse should run on that day.

"He can't walk, my Lord," said the groom, in that authoritative voice
which grooms use when they desire to have their own way, and to
make their masters understand that they at any rate are not to have
theirs.

"Where is Pook?" ask