The old groom made no apology for entering; as was his custom, he plunged at once in medias res.
“I’ve sent two out for you to-day,” said he, marching up to Mr. Sawyer’s chair, and confronting him with a grin, such as might be cut out of mahogany.
“And left one in the stable! you old idiot!” exclaimed the indignant Mr. Sawyer. “What the deuce have you done that for?”
“You’ll want a second horse to-day,” answered the groom. “You’ll have a bid for Marathon before you’ve been on him half an hour. Leastways, if you’ve the discretion not to go a-showing of him up.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Sawyer, with a dawning of intelligence overspreading his countenance, for he knew his servant’s diplomatic talents of old.
“Only that they’re all of ’em wanting a nag to win this here donkey-race, as I call it; for none but a donkey would be concerned in such a tomfoolery; and Mr. Crasher, he’s satisfied by this time that Marathon’s the one as just can. You sit still upon him to-day, and keep jogging of him about, to qualify like, till the hounds find, and then open your mouth, and take what they offer you.”
Mr. Sawyer had implicit confidence in his old servant; still he could not help wishing to be further enlightened.
“You must have told some precious yarns,” said he, “to make people believe Marathon could run up with a man in mud-boots!”
“I never said a word!” answered Isaac; “people may believe their own eyes. Mr. Tiptop and I, we tried ’un this very morning again Chance; and though she’s the best in the town, we beat her by more than a length.”
“Marathon beat that mare!” exclaimed Mr. Sawyer, now completely taken aback. “What do you mean?”