Meanwhile in the stable of the Honourable Crasher is considerable consternation and bewilderment. The helpers look wise, and wink at each other, as they pass from stall to stall, in the execution of their duties. Mr. Tiptop is completely at his wits’ end. Can he, the knowing Tiptop, looked up to as the great unerring authority on training, pace, weight for age, and other racing mysteries—Newmarket all over—can he have made a mistake? He begins to think, not only that he can, but that he has.

First of all they gave the hapless Marathon a spin with Chance, as a mere breather, and I have already said with what result.

Mr. Tiptop being determined to get at “the rights of it,” then tried the horses a mile at even weights; the consequences admitted of less doubt than ever. Marathon’s “form” was so obviously bad, that the groom concluded he must be amiss.

“Why, he can’t go no faster than our mare can trot,” soliloquised Mr. Tiptop, as he contemplated the bay grinding away at his afternoon’s feed (to do Marathon justice, he was always good at this part of his day’s work), and thought that the animal did by no means show to advantage amongst his stable companions. “Can he be one of those extraordinary horses as I’ve hear’d of, wot can scarcely wag without they’re trained a’most to fiddle-strings, but as nothing mortal can touch if once you gets them fit?” He almost persuaded himself that the new purchase must indeed be such a phenomenon, and resolved on putting him through a severe course of physic, and into strong training forthwith. Before, however, resorting to such ulterior measures, he had the wisdom to think of applying to old Isaac for a solution of the mystery.

He found the senior busy in his little saddle-room, engaged in no less important an occupation than the improvement of The Boy’s morals and general deportment, for which I grieve to observe, since his arrival at Harborough, there was sufficient room. The youth, though he worked hard, was seldom sober now, and never told the truth but by accident. Isaac’s method of imparting ethical instruction was uncompromising, if not agreeable. With the lad’s collar in one hand, and a spare stirrup-leather in the other, he insisted forcibly on those maxims which he considered most salutary to the tender mind, accompanying each with a stinging illustration from the strap; the dialogue between the sage and his disciple being conducted much in this wise:—

Isaac: “I’ve told you over and over again, ye young warmint, and I’ll tell it ye every day I live, if I larrup the skin off ye.” (Whack.)

The Boy: “Oh, please!”

Isaac: “You’ll never rise in life, nor be fit to be called a stableman, without you can work them qualities which have made me what I am; that’s what I am a teaching of ye.” (Whack.)

The Boy: “Oh, please!”

Isaac: “First and foremost, sobriety.”—(Whack, and “Oh, please!”) “Secondly, honesty, coupled with early rising.”—(Whack again, and a howling “Oh, please!” from the pupil.) “Thirdly and lastly, sobriety.”—(Whack.) “I’ll go over ’em again; them’s the three cardinal virtues. You mind what I’m a tellin’ ye—Sobriety, honesty, coupled with early rising, and sobriety.” (Whack, whack, whack; and “Oh, please! oh, please! oh, please!”)

At this juncture, Mr. Tiptop entered. Casting an approving glance at the mode of treatment adopted, he seated himself on an inverted stable-bucket, and professed his readiness to await old Isaac’s leisure ere he asked to have “a word with him.” The other let go of The Boy’s collar—who darted from the place like a weasel—and put on his own coat and hat. Thus armed, he waited to hear what his guest had to say. Mr. Tiptop broached the subject at once.

“Rum go, this here!” said he, hoisting his hat on to his eyebrows. “Uncommon queer start it is, about your bay horse. Can’t get him out, I can’t, do what I will with him; the beggar seems well, too, and pretty fit, as far as I see, and I’ve trained a few of them! If I didn’t know he was a smartish nag now, I should say he was as slow as an eight-day clock when it runs down. What am I to think of it?”

Isaac’s little blue eyes twinkled for an instant, but turned to stone once more, as he replied slowly, “Think of it? Well, it seems to me, now, that he won’t be much use to your governor if he can’t win.”

“Not he!” answered Mr. Tiptop, contemptuously. “I could have told you that. What I want to know is, why the beggar was so much better in your ............