He had just stabled his steed in the warmest corner of the shed, and, having taken off his own coat to fling over the animal’s heaving quarters, was beginning to speculate on the probable rheumatism that would succeed this imprudence, when, to his astonishment and disgust, the door was darkened by another figure, and his solitude disturbed by the entrance of a man and horse, in all probability seeking the same shelter for the same cause.
The new-comer was a remarkably good-looking person, extremely well got-up, particularly as regarded his nether extremities, and our friend at once recognised him as having been very forward with the hounds at different stages of the run. His horse, a well-bred bay, was “done to a turn.” When Sawyer looked at its drooping head and heaving flanks, it seemed to put him quite in conceit with the roan. For a moment neither spoke a word—then the absurdity of the situation seemed to strike them simultaneously, and they both burst out laughing.
“What? They’ve cooked _your_ goose as well as mine!” said the stranger, in off-hand tones, producing at the same time a silver cigar-case, on which our friend could not help fancying he descried a coronet, and proceeding to light a most tempting-looking weed.
“A very likely day to do it, too,” he added, glancing, as Sawyer thought, somewhat contemptuously at himself and steed. “The pace for the first twenty minutes was _alarming_, and the country awfully deep. I should say you’ll hardly get that horse home to-night.”
The suggestion was neither flattering nor consolatory. Mr. Sawyer felt half inclined to be offended; but he thought of the silver cigar-case, and swallowed the retort uncourteous that rose to his lips. He was a true Briton, and not above a weakness for the peerage. “This good-looking man,” he argued, “notwithstanding his black coat, must be a Viscount at least!”
“I’m going as far as Market Harborough,” he observed meekly. “It cannot be more than seven or eight miles. I shall hope to accomplish that.”
“Lucky for _you_!” replied the other. “I want to get to Melton, if I can. I’ve a hack here at Welford, if this beggar can take me there. He’s short of work, poor devil! and could hardly wag coming up the hill. I should say _your_ horse would die.”