She came down the steps, laughing, with Mr. Riddle, who was in his riding clothes, for he was to race that day.  He handed her in, and got in after her.  The coachman cracked his whip, the coach creaked off down the drive, I in the trees one side waiting for them to pass, and wondering what Nick was to do.  He had let go my bridle, folded his whip in his hand, and with a shout of “Come on, Davy,” he ran for the coach, which was going slowly, caught hold of the footman’s platform, and pulled himself up.

What possessed the footman I know not.  Perchance fear of his mistress was greater than fear of his young master; but he took the lad by the shoulders—­gently, to be sure—­and pushed him into the road, where he fell and rolled over.  I guessed what would happen.  Picking himself up, Nick was at the man like a hurricane, seizing him swiftly by the leg.  The negro fell upon the platform, clutching wildly, where he lay in a sheer fright, shrieking for mercy, his cries rivalled by those of the lady within.  The coachman frantically pulled his horses to a stand, the other footman jumped off, and Mr. Harry Riddle came flying out of the coach door, to behold Nicholas beating the negro with his riding-whip.

“You young devil,” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily, striding forward, “what are you doing?”

“Keep off, Harry,” said Nicholas.  “I am teaching this nigger that he is not to lay hands on his betters.”  With that he gave the boy one more cut, and turned from him contemptuously.

“What is it, Harry?” came in a shrill voice from within the coach.

“It’s Nick’s pranks,” said Mr. Riddle, grinning in spite of his anger; “he’s ruined one of your footmen.  You little scoundrel,” cried Mr. Riddle, advancing again, “you’ve frightened your mother nearly to a swoon.”

“Serves her right,” said Nick.

“What!” cried Mr. Riddle.  “Come down from there instantly.”

Nick raised his whip.  It was not that that stopped Mr. Riddle, but a sign about the lad’s nostrils.

“Harry Riddle,” said the boy, “if it weren’t for you, I’d be riding in this coach to-day with my mother.  I don’t want to ride with her, but I will go to the races.  If you try to take me down, I’ll do my best to kill you,” and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.

Mrs. Temple’s beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of the door.

“For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us.  We’re late enough as it is.”

Mr. Riddle turned on his heel.  He tried to glare at Nick, but he broke into a laugh instead.

“Come down, Satan,” says he.  “God help the woman you love and the man you fight.”

And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach.  The footman picked himself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumbering way for the race-course, I following.