8 4 



RACING. 



the subway, to emerge again into upper air on the tumultuous 

 exchange of TattersalFs ring. 



It wants but ten minutes to starting time, and Stott is 

 calling out the jockeys, as Sir Laudator and his companion, 

 both members of the Jockey Club, enter the luncheon-room 

 sacred to that body, a lofty well-lighted apartment, with bright 

 fire, bare walls, and table furnished forth as for a ball-room 

 supper ; on the sideboard hot dishes, and goodly array of 

 bottles ; Pace's satellites somewhat bustled by the throng of 

 hungry and thirsty convives of both sexes. 



'Well, Juvabir, how goes it ? how is Paul Pry? and will he 



Then he is steadied. 



win ? ' inquires one whose persistent search after turf know- 

 ledge has been hitherto but inadequately rewarded. 



' If it is well to want luncheon, and to have no time to eat 

 it, then it goes well. Paul Pry is well, or at least has told me 

 nothing to the contrary ; he will win if he doesn't tumble down, 

 "or if nothing beats him,' answers the youthful owner helping 

 himself to a cutlet, and demanding immediate champagne. 



This reply, not being of a nature to encourage further 

 interrogation, Lord Olim is left unmolested, the more readily 

 inasmuch as the ladies usually the chief inquisitors have to 



