1 6 TALES OF THE TURF AND THE CHASE. 



It is twelve o'clock, and the glorious October sun is gilding 

 every stable cupola outside the stirring town. A heavy dew 

 still lies on the Heath, and the morning mists yet hang thinly 

 over the distant woods. Up and down the long street, cabs and 

 omnibuses keep in a constant stream of life, while an uncivil 

 humanity blocks up the pavement at central points of interest. 

 Villanous- looking bookmakers, seedy ostlers, with a doubtful 

 crew of indescribable ruffians, herd together outside taverns, 

 taking their morning stimulants before trudging on to the scene 

 of action. 



Over the baker's shop Joe Dallas sits in the huge armchair 

 near the fire. The coals are heaped half-way up the chimney, 

 and yet he shivers in close proximity to the blaze. The morning 

 meal remains untouched on the table. Joe is ready for the race, 

 dressed in the yellow shirt with black-striped sleeves, which 

 indicates him as the rider of Satanas. He wears his jockey-cap 

 well over his eyes, and his face is bound round with a black-silk 

 handkerchief His eyes are wild and haggard, and his face 

 almost livid in hue. The clock on the mantelshelf tings the 

 half-hour. Joe puts down his cigarette, and moves to the window. 

 The flood of humanity is flowing onwards and upwards to the 

 Heath. The loiterers are few, and strings of riders of both sexes, 

 with many private equipages, go by. One or two familiar 

 acquaintances glance up at the baker's windows, and nod to Joe. 

 Another half-hour passes, and the streets are almost deserted. 

 Policemen have leisure to chat to cooks, and maidservants cease 

 to peer over blinds or survey the motley throng from up-stair 

 windows. The very dogs appear to have gathered themselves 

 together on the racecourse, and cats swagger about the streets 

 unmolested by terrors. The whistle of a special train makes 

 itself heard, and presently a royalty dashes up the street in a 

 carriage and pair. On the Heath the hum and hubbub is at its 

 height now. A small race has just come off, and lightly-clad 

 jockeys are to be seen donning top-coats. 



' Where's Joe Dallas ?' inquires one of these gentlemen as he 

 greets another. 



* Ain't he in the Stand ?' 



' No ; he ain't been seen this morning, and the crack's master 

 have just sent down a cab for him. It looks fishy ; he's always 

 up to time if he means to ride.' 



Two bystanders, to whom this conversation is audible, ex- 

 change glances of intelligence. Half-past one, Rupert Ellis 



