In the Off-Season 285 



met with an accident. Which thing is a — 

 well, euphemism, let us call it, for w^e know, 

 as a fact, that nothing ails the sporting 

 baronet except an impecuniosity which has 

 now become chronic, and the utter obtuse- 

 ness exhibited by Mr. Shadrach Mozeltoff 

 when spoken to on the somewhat ticklish 

 subject of "renewals." Under these circum- 

 stances he has sent his horses up to Albert 

 Gate, and transported himself from our 

 inclement shores and a set of grasping 

 creditors, to the balmy air and orange 

 groves of the sunny Mediterranean. Out 

 of the stud in question there is one grand 

 hunter that we covet, a grey. Constable, 

 we know, paid (or owed) close upon three 

 hundred for it last season as a five-year- 

 old. We think we will have just one bid for 

 Shamrock. Confound it ! here's that idiot 

 Stubbins, who has always said how much he 

 should like to buy the horse. Wonder if 

 we could manage to put him off it ? 



" How are you, Stubbins. Come up to 

 buy anything ? " 



