mr. sponge's sporting tour. 417 



Lord Scamperdale stands with his hand on the horse's mane, talking 

 earnestly to Jack, doubtless, giving him his final instructions. Other 

 jockeys emerge from various parts of the farm-build ings ; 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 Grander," 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 derange- 

 ment 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. 



