rses led their
peaceful life, he was attacked by Nat.

"Here, Master Scar," he cried excitedly, catching the lad by the sleeve,
"is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That the war's coming nigher our way, and they've sent for the master
to fight?"

"Yes, Nat; true enough," said the lad, proudly drawing himself up. "Sir
Godfrey and I are going off to the wars to-morrow morning."

"You, Master Scar? You?"

"Yes, Nat; to-morrow."

"Why, dear heart alive, Master Scar, lad," cried Nat, laying his hand
affectionately on the boy's shoulder, "it seems only t'other day as you
used to come and coax me to leave my mowing and go on hands and knees to
make a horse for you to ride, and now you're talking about going to the
war."

"Yes, Nat. Time goes."

"But, dear lad," cried the gardener, letting his hand slide down to
Scarlett's biceps, "why, you haven't got the muscle in your arm to
handle a scythe, let alone a sword to mow down men."

"I can't help that, Nat," cried Scarlett, angrily. "Let go. There'll
be muscle enough to thrash you some day."

"I hope so, dear lad. But try and thrash brother Samson first. I
should like to see you do that."

"Don't talk nonsense. And come along. I want to look at the horses."

"But are you really going, Master Scar?"

"I--am--really--going, Nat, and I want to settle which horse I shall
ride. So please say no more about it."

Nat took off his hat and scratched his head, his face wrinkling up all
over as he followed his young master to the stables, just like one of
his own pippins which had been lying in the apple loft all through the
winter.

Then, as they reached the door, and Scarlett entered, Nat put on his
cap, gave his knee a slap, and with one set of wrinkles disappearing
from his countenance to make room for another, like a human dissolving
view, he burst out into a low chuckle.

"That'll knock the wind out of old Samson's sails! A miserable,
cowardly, fat-headed old puddick. He wouldn't have the courage to do
that."

"Nat!"

"Coming, Master Scar;" and Nat hurried into the stables to find his
young master standing beside the light cob his father often rode.
"Hullo, Master Scar, sir, thinking about having Moorcock?"

"Yes, Nat. My father is sure not to take him for his charger, and he
would suit me exactly."

"Well, yes, sir, I dare say he would. But why not have Black Adder?"

"Because I thought my father would like him."

"Nay, sir; master'll choose