MR. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 443 



cries a third — " Done ! " roars a fourth. " Twice over ! " rejoins 

 the other — " Done ! " replies the taker. " Ar'll take five to one 

 agin the Daddy ! " — " I'll lay six ! " " What'll any one lay 'gin 

 Parvo ? " And so they raise such an uproar that the squeak, 

 squeak, squeak of the 



" Devil among the tailors," 

 is hardly heard. 



Then, in a partial lull, the voice of Lord Scamperdale rises, ex- 

 claiming, " Oh, you hideous Hobgoblin, bull-and-mouth of a boy ! 

 you think, because I'm a lord, and can't swear, or use coarse 

 language " And again the hubbub, led on by the 



" Devil among the tailors," 



drowns the exclamations of the speaker. It's that Pacey again ; 

 he's accusing the virtuous Mr. Spraggon of handing his extra 

 weight to Lord Scamperdale ; and Jack, in the full consciousness 

 of injured guilt, intimates that the blood of the Spraggons won't 

 stand that — that there's "only one way of settling it, and he'll be 

 ready for Pacey half an horn' after the race." 



At length the horses are all out — one, two, three, four, five, six, 

 seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen — 

 fifteen of them, moving about in all directions ; some taking an 

 up-gallop, others a down : some a spicy trot, others walking to 

 and fro ; while one has still his muzzle on, lest he should unship 

 his rider and eat him ; and another's groom follows, imploring the 

 mob to keep off his heels if they don't want their heads in their 

 hands. The noisy bell at length summons the scattered forces to 

 the post, and the variegated riders form into as good a line as 

 circumstances will allow. Just as Mr. Sponge turns his horse's 

 head Lucy hands him her little silver sherry-flask, which our friend 

 drains to the dregs. As he returns it, with a warm pressure of her 

 soft hand, a pent-up flood of tears burst their bounds, and suffuse 

 her lustrous eyes. She turns away to hide her emotion ; at the 

 same instant a wild shout rends the air — " W-h-i-r-r ! They're off! " 



Thirteen get away, one turns tail, and our friend in the Lincoln 

 green is left performing a pas seul, asking the rearing horse, with 

 an oath, if he thinks " he stole him ? " while the mob shout and 

 roar; and one wicked wag, in coaching parlance, advises him to 

 pay the difference, and get inside. 



But what a display of horsemanship is exhibited by the flyers ! 

 Tongs comes off at the first fence, the horse making straight for a 

 pond, while the rest rattle on in a mass. The second fence is 

 small, but there's a ditch on the far side, and Pusher and Gander 

 severally measure their lengths on the rushy pasture beyond. 

 Still there are ten left, and nobody ever reckoned upon these 

 getting to the far end. 



