Mil. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 441 



to do nothing in, may be supposed to speak — "Why, now, as ta 

 the matter of that," said he, eyeing Pacey intently, and beginning 

 to drop the silver slowly as he spoke, " I can't say that I've any 

 very 'ticklar 'quaintance with the captin. I knows him, in course, 

 just as one knows a neighbour's son. The captin's a good deal 

 younger nor me," continued he, raising his new eight-and-sixpenny 

 Parisian, as if to show his sandy grey hair. " I'm a'most sixty ; 

 and he, I dare say, is little more nor twenty," dropping a half- 

 crown as he said it. " But the captin's a nice young gent — a nice 

 young gent, without any blandishment, I should say ; and that's 

 more nor one can say of all young gents now-a-days," said 

 Buckram, looking at Pacey as he spoke, and dropping two con- 

 secutive half-crowns. 



" Why, but you live near him, don't you ? " interrupted Bragg. 



"Near him," repeated Buckram, feeling his well-shaven chin 

 thoughtfully. "Why, yes — that's to say, near his dad. The fact 

 is," continued he, " I've a little independence of my own," 

 dropping a heavy five-shilling piece as he said it, " and his father 

 — old Bo, as I call him — adjoins me ; and if either of us 'appen 

 to have a lallue, or a 'aunch of wenzun, and a few friends, we 

 inwitc each other, and wicey wersey, you know," letting off a lot of 

 shillings and sixpences. And just at the moment the blind fiddler 

 struck up "The Devil among the Tailors," when the shouts and 

 laughter of the mob closed the scene. 



And now gentlemen, who heretofore have shown no more of the 

 jockey than Cinderella's feet in the early part of the pantomime 

 disclose of her ball attire, suddenly cast off the pea-jackets and 

 bearskin wraps, and shawls and over-coats of winter, and shine 

 forth in all the silken flutter of summer heat. 



We know of no more humiliating sight than misshapen gentle- 

 men playing at jockeys. Playing at soldiers is bad enough, but 

 playing at jockeys is infinitely worse — above all, playing at steeple- 

 chase jockeys, combining, as they generally do, all the worst 

 features of the hunting-field and racecourse — unsympathising 

 boots and breeches, dirty jackets that never fit, and caps that 

 won't keep on. What a farce to see the great bulky fellows go to 

 scale with their saddles strapped to their backs, as if to illustrate 

 the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding-plate ! 



But the weighed in ones are mounting. See, there's Jack 

 Spraggon getting a hoist on to Daddy Longlegs ! Did ever 

 mortal see such a man for a jockey ? He has cut off the laps of a 

 stunner tartan jacket, and looks like a great backgammon-board. 

 He has got his head into an old gold-banded military foraging-cap, 

 which comes down almost on to the rims of his great tortoiseshell 

 spectacles. Lord Scamperdale stands with his hand on the horse's 

 mane, talking earnestly to Jack, doubtless giving him his final 



