An unshaved face, blotched and parti-coloured from waning inebriety, upturned and open-mouthed in all the imbecility of profound sleep; a recumbent form snoring loudly under a patchwork quilt, and supported by a rickety bedstead, on an uncarpeted floor, in a room with a sloping roof, of which the only furniture seemed to be a box, originally intended for horse-clothing; a five-pound saddle, a pair of spurs, and a black bottle containing a tallow candle that had guttered itself out some two hours previously—all this does not sound like a cheerful and inspiriting scene about five o’clock on a winter’s morning. Nevertheless, such did not fail to call a grim smile into Isaac’s harsh countenance, as he contemplated it, on this, his first visit to Mr. Tiptop’s apartment. Isaac had been revolving the swell stud-groom’s proposal of the evening before, and had come to a decision in his own mind ere he went to sleep, the result of which was his matutinal appearance in the chamber I have endeavoured to describe. He was not a man to waste much time in the contemplation even of a more agreeable sight than that which now met his eyes. He shook Mr. Tiptop roughly by the shoulder till that worthy sat up in bed, and blinked at his visitor’s candle with a ludicrous expression of astonishment and dismay.

“What’s up?” he exclaimed at last, as he began to be sensible of the old man’s identity. “Blessed if I didn’t think the stables was a-fire, and all our horses grilling, till I see it was you. Will you take any refreshment?” added Mr. Tiptop jocosely, pointing to an earthenware ewer containing cold water—and not much of that; “or is there anything I can do for you besides telling you what o’clock it is?” he added, yawning, and betraying strong symptoms of a desire to go to sleep again.

Old Isaac laid his finger to his nose.

“Get up,” said he in a cautious whisper. “It is just to know what’s o’clock as I’ve come here. You lay your hand on a fourteen-pound saddle, and there need be no mistake about the weights. My nag’s ready, and turned round. You go and get yourn. There’s a bit o’ moon left: not quite burned down yet. We can get it over and done with, and the horses back in the stable afore the others is up.”

Mr. Tiptop was a man of considerable energy when anything like a robbery was on the cards: he was, however, hardly prepared for such a display of alacrity on the part of his companion. He put one skinny leg out of bed, and then paused, staring vaguely at his visitor.

“Come, look alive!” said old Isaac, fishing a pair of breeches from the floor; “there ain’t a minute to lose. Where’s the key o’ your stable?”

The weaker nature obeyed instinctively: Tiptop put on his breeches, and produced the key,

“Not a word to living mortal!” urged the old man impressively. “It’s as much as my place is worth. I’ve left The Boy safe locked up. You go and get your horse, and meet me in the close. There’s just light enough to gallop ’em. Look alive, man! Whatever should I do if master was to get wind of this here?”

Isaac seemed unusually perturbed as he preceded Mr. Tiptop down the creaking stairs, and wended his way to his own stable, leaving the latter—still rather confused—to saddle and bring out the redoubtable Chance.

The Honourable Crasher’s groom felt for the first time in his life somewhat puzzled, and taken aback. He had not calculated on such promptitude and decision from a “yokel.” Also, his intellects had hardly recovered the potency of the flip, a beverage of which it requires several hours’ sleep to obviate the effects. Altogether he was sensible of less than his usual self-confidence. In his hurry, too, and by the imperfect light of a stable-lantern, he put the wrong saddle on Chance, who, by the way, was not a very pleasant animal to caparison, save by her own accustomed attendant—a grey-haired, withered old helper, then probably dreaming of the better days most of these ancient stablemen have seen. The snaffle, too, that he wanted was not in its accustomed place. Altogether, it took him some considerable time before he could lead the horse out into the wan light of a morning moon. This interval, however, had enabled him to recover the good opinion he generally entertained of Mr. Tiptop. As he got upon Chance’s back, and felt the animal step lightly and jauntily under him, the conviction came strong upon his mind that in some way or other he was sure to get the better of the yokel.

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