418 mr. sponge's sporting tour. 



" Seven to one 'gain the Bart. ! " screams one — " I'll take eight ! " 

 roars another. " Five to one agen Herc'les! " 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, 

 exclaiming, " 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 hour 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-rf They're off!" 



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

 green is left performing a pas seid, 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, 

 out there's a ditch on the far side, and Pusher and Gander severally 



