"So somebody told me in the carriage," continued Frank, "and I contrived to get my box off at Stewarton. The guard was uncommon civil, and so was the porter. But I hadn't a moment to look for the boy."
"I always make my fellow stick to his horses," said Sir Griffin.
"But you see, Sir Griffin, I haven't got a fellow, and I've only hired a horse. But I shall hire a good many horses from Mr. MacFarlane if he'll always put me up like this."
"I'm so glad you're here," said Lizzie.
"So am I. I hunt about twice in three years, and no man likes it so much. I've still got to find out whether the beast can jump."
"Any mortal thing alive, sir," said one of those horsey-looking men who are to be found in all hunting-fields, who wear old brown breeches, old black coats, old hunting-caps, who ride screws, and never get thrown out.
"You know him, do you?" said Frank.
"I know him. I didn't know as Muster MacFarlane owned him. No more he don't," said the horsey man, turning aside to one of his friends. "That's Nappie's horse, from Jamaica Street."
"Not possible," said the friend.
"You'll tell me I don't know my own horse next."