everybody knew, a sight of itself, and who
could see it in a stifling fly?

To give full vent to his feelings, the job-master
released the gaping buttons from the
great button-holes of his box-coat, and peeled
off a fold or two of his bulbous cravat.
I had not seen the whole of his face; for.
as he had never looked up, I could only
catch occasional glimpses of his forehead, as
he smoothed down his hair with the flat of
his hand, the rest of his features receding to
a perspective of chin that lost itself in
the depths of his loosened neckcloth. He
spoke very earnestly—not to me—but to the
crown of his hat; which he held close under
his mouth that it might catch every word
that he dropped.

"But I am not a good horseman," I said,
letting down my deficiencies in that respect as
gently as possible. I had never mounted a
horse above twenty times in my life, and had
tumbled off twice.

"That won't matter," he replied. "I don't
like to brag "—here he made modest circles
on the crown of his hat with his forefinger
—"but, if anybody can show a gentleman
how to ride, I can. When I left the army
(I was in the twelfth hussars) I was
riding-master to Bokicker's riding-school at
Brighton, till I found an opening down here
and took to the fly and job trade." Looking
up and taking a furtive, and I hope
accurate, inspection of my figure, he added,
"You're just the build for horseback, you
are; and how you've kept yourself out of the
saddle all these years, is a wonder to me.
But it's never too late to begin." In answer
to a word of mine about the danger of the
experiment, he said. "Look'ee here, sir—
I'll ride the grey pony that I let with the
phaëton to ladies for paying visits, and'll go
with you. You shall mount the old mare;
and if she don't take you along as easy
as a Bath-chair, my name isn't Tom Hockle."

"I may depend upon your word that the
creature has no tricks?"

Hurt at my momentary suspicion that
he could have any sort of desire to see me
break my neck, Mr. Hockle replied, "Bless
you, sir! you might ride her with a thread
of tailor's twist."

During this conversation in the front
parlour of my lodging on the Museum Parade, I got
the notion that the Flyman was a full-bodied
person, up in years; for I had not noticed
that his box-coat was too big for him, and
that the tops of his boots were not
particularly well filled out. When, therefore, I
entered his stable-yard, and beheld a well-knit
middle-aged man in a close short-tailed
under-coat, drawing on a pair of doe-skin
gloves; a switch-whip under his arm; his
top-boots pulled neatly up over his leathers;
his hat jauntily cocked to one side, and
a lock of hair combed sprucely forward
to the edge of each eye, I attributed the
illusion respecting him to my timorous
sensations on seeing the mare and pony ready
saddled and bridled, and on overhearing him
tell his man (adroitly speaking with the near
side of his mouth, without shaking a sprig
of the woodbine that sprouted out from the
off side) "to take up another link of old
Rufa's curb, in case she offered to bolt with
the gent." But, having shut my eyes and
desperately mounted without detecting the
trace of a smile on the countenances of
either of the spectators, my senses were
sufficiently restored to perceive that the Flyman
and the Ridingmaster was the same person,
wholly changed in appearance by change of
dress.

As we paced along, side by side—he on his
low pony, I on the tall mare—past the
High Tor, over Matlock Bridge, and round
the Church Rocks, Mr. Hockle alternated
his instructions in riding with descriptions of
the scenery. "He was very fond of this
country," he said, "for he was born at Crookston-
Withers; and, having left home when a
lad, only lately returned to the neighbourhood.
The absence had made him like it all
the more. That's Crookston Hall!" he said,
pointing with his whip. "Sit more upright,
sir!"

"You mean the stiff, ugly, red-brick
house with stone dressings?" I asked,
resenting the square, rigid edifice that obtruded
itself—a prim impertinence—in the open and
varied landscape.

"Well, I can't say much for the house,"
was the answer, "but it stands—Sink your
heels, sir!—it stands on the prettiest spot
hereabouts. We shall skirt the grounds
presently. Out of the drawing-room window,
you can see straight over the flower-garden,
into this dingle. Pull up, sir,—gradually;
don't jerk her, for she's apt to rear."

We had arrived on the rising ground
beside Crookston Hall, and stopped to look
between the trees over the shrubs and
saplings, into a narrow dell that lay between
the garden of Crookston Hall and the Derwent.
Its troughlike bed was smoothly curved with
green and bright grass; and, from each side,
shot up straight and stately firs tipped with
evergreen.

"You see that oak on the other bank,
where the beeches are?"

After some little difficulty, I made it out.

"Well," continued the Flyman, "when I
was a youngster, I went up that tree once too
often."

"Bird's-nesting?"

"No, I had a right to be there; but I
overheard things that have lasted me for life.
Turn in your knees, sir!" We were ambling
along again.

"Family secrets, perhaps," I hazarded, to
take off Mr. Hockle's attention from the
awkward figure I was making.

"Well, perhaps, they were. You see I was
stable-boy at the Hall at first; afterwards, Mr.
George Dornley the eldest son, took me to be