442 MB. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 



instructions. Other jockeys emerge from various parts of the 

 farm-buildings ; some out of stables ; some out of cow-houses ; 

 others from beneath cart-sheds. The scene becomes enlivened 

 with the varied colours of the riders — red, yellow, green, blue, 

 violet, and stripes without end. Then comes the usual difficulty of 

 identifying the parties, many of whose mothers wouldn't know them. 



" That's Captain Tongs," observes Miss Simperley, " in the 

 blue. I remember dancing with him at Bath, and he did nothing 

 but talk about steeple-chasing." 



" And who's that in yellow ? " asks Miss Hardy. 



" That's Captain Gander," replies the gentleman on her left. 



" "Well, I think he'll win, ,; replies the lady. 



" I'll bet you a pair of gloves he doesn't," snaps Miss Moore, 

 who fancies Captain Pusher, in the pink. 



" What a squat little jockey ! " exclaims Miss Hamilton, as a 

 little dumpling of a man in Lincoln green is led past the stand on 

 a fine bay horse, some one recognising the rider as our old friend 

 Caingey Thornton. 



"And look who comes here ? " whispers Miss Jawleyford to her 

 sister, as Mr. Sponge, having accomplished a mount without 

 derangement of temper, rides Hercules quietly past the stand, his 

 whip-hand resting on his thigh, and his head turned to his fair 

 companion on the white. 



" Oh, the wretch ! " sneers Miss Amelia ; and the fair sisters 

 look at Lucy and then at him with the utmost disgust. 



Mr. Sponge may now be doubled up by half a dozen falls ere 

 either of them would suggest the propriety of having him bled. 



Lucy's cheeks are rather blanched with the "pale cast of 

 thought," for she is not sufficiently initiated in the mysteries of 

 steeple-chasing to know that it is often quite as good for a man 

 to lose as to win, which it had just been quietly arranged between 

 Sponge and Buckram should be the case on this occasion, Buckram 

 having got uncommonly " well on " to the losing tune. Perhaps, 

 however, Lucy was thinking of the peril, not the profit of the thing. 



The young ladies on the stand eye her with mingled feelings 

 of pity and disdain, while the elderly ones shake their heads, call 

 her a bold hussy — declare she's not so pretty — adding that they 

 " wouldn't have come if they'd known," &c. &c. 



But it is half past two (an hour and a half after time), and 

 there is at last a disposition evinced by some of the parties to go to 

 the post. Broad-backed partycoloured jockeys are seen converging 

 that way, and the betting-men close in, getting more and more 

 clamorous for odds. "What a hubbub ! How they bellow ! How 

 they roar ! A universal deafness seems to have come over the 

 whole of them. " Seven to one 'gain the Bart. ! " screams one — 

 " I'll take eight ! " roars another. " Five to one agen Herc'lcs ! " 



