12 TJLES OF PINK AND SILK. 



Annual Horse and Dog Show, and the other — the present 

 occasion — the Hunt Steeplechase. 



Two young men in a smart dog- cart, with a most taking 

 "stepper" in the shafts, drive into the Red Lion yard. 

 " Mornin', sir," says the ostler, touching his cap. " Morning, 

 Tom," replies the gentleman who has been manipulating the 

 ribbons. "My horse come yet?" " Yessir, No. 6 box, sir. 

 Just round the corner at the far end, sir." " Anything else in 

 here, Tom ? " asks George Foswith, the previous speaker. 

 " Yessir, Mr. Elsworth's 'osses, and Major Spooner's mare, and 

 a bay 'oss called Tom Bowling. B'longs to Captain Bleater ; 

 gent from the south, I believe, sir." 



'• Oh, by the way, Charlie," says Foswith to his com- 

 panion, " I was going to ask you if you knew anything 

 about this Captam Bleater. He comes from somewhere 

 near your uncle's place, I fancy, and his horse, Tom Bowling, 

 is in my race." 



" Yes," replies Charlie Daventry, who is spending a week 

 or two with his old college chum, "his house and training 

 stables are about three miles from Uncle Fred's, and I often 

 see him or his horses ; I don't know much of him, though. 

 Meet him in the hunting field and at local race-meetings, 

 of course, but he doesn't mix much in decent society about 

 there, and is rather a shady customer. He just missed being 

 ' warned off' for a doubtful piece of jocke^^ship at Blank- 

 borough the other day." 



" Tom Bowling any good ? " 



" Oh dear, no. Hasn't won a race at all yet, and been 

 trying hard, too. Horace Murray, who sold him to Bleater 

 for £40, told me he Avas a confounded rogue, and no 

 earthly use even when he did happen to be in the mood. 

 1 can't think what has induced Bleater to bring him 

 all this way, because the man is no fool at racing — bit 

 too sharp, if anything, and will cut himself some day. 



