me, says he, `That
don't look well, that 'oss don't,'--and he's a knowing feller, sir, is
L'Esperance, though he _is_ an 'alf-breed--"

"Never mind what he said, Tom," interrupted the senior clerk; "is the
pony fit for use? that's the question."

"No, sir, 'e hain't."

"And the black mare, can he not have that?"

"No, sir; Mr Grant is to ride 'er to-morrow."

"That's unfortunate," said the senior clerk.--"I fear, Charley, that
you'll need to ride behind Harry on his gray pony. It wouldn't improve
his speed, to be sure, having two on his back; but then he's so like a
pig in his movements at any rate, I don't think it would spoil his pace
much."

"Could he not try the new horse?" he continued, turning to the groom.

"The noo 'oss, sir! he might as well try to ride a mad buffalo bull,
sir. He's quite a young colt, sir, only 'alf broke--kicks like a
windmill, sir, and's got an 'ead like a steam-engine; 'e couldn't 'old
'im in no'ow, sir. I 'ad 'im down to the smith t'other day, sir, an'
says 'e to me, says 'e, `That's a screamer, that is.' `Yes,' says I,
`that his a fact.' `Well,' says 'e--"

"Hang the smith!" cried the senior clerk, losing all patience; "can't
you answer me without so much talk? Is the horse too wild to ride?"

"Yes, sir, 'e is," said the groom, with a look of slightly offended
dignity, and drawing himself up--if we may use such an expression to one
who was always drawn up to such an extent that he seemed to be just
balanced on his heels, and required only a gentle push to lay him flat
on his back.

"Oh, I have it!" cried Peter Mactavish, who had been standing during the
conversation with his back to the fire, and a short pipe in his mouth:
"John Fowler, the miller, has just purchased a new pony. I'm told it's
an old buffalo-runner, and I'm certain he would lend it to Charley at
once."

"The very thing," said the senior clerk.--"Run, Tom; give the miller my
compliments, and beg the loan of his horse for Charley Kennedy.--I think
he knows you, Charley?"

The dinner-bell rang as the groom departed, and the clerks prepared for
their mid-day meal.

The senior clerk's order to "_run_" was a mere form of speech, intended
to indicate that haste was desirable. No man imagined for a moment that
Tom Whyte could by any possibility _run_. He hadn't run since he was
dismissed from the army, twenty years before, for incurable drunkenness;
and most of Tom's friends entertained the belief that i