420 MR. sponge's sporting tour. 



then put on all the steam they can raise over the twenty-acre pasture 

 that follows. 



The white ! — the red ! — the yaller ! The red ! — the white ! — the 

 yaller ! and anybody's race ! A sheet would cover them ! — crack ! 

 whack ! crack ! how they flog ! Hercules springs at the sound. 



Many of the excited spectators begin hallooing, and straddling, 

 and working their arms, as if their gestures and vociferations would 

 assist the race. Lord Scamperdale stands transfixed. He is staring 

 through his silver spectacles at the awkwardly lying ball that repre- 

 sents poor Spraggon. 



" By Heavens ! " exclaims he, in an undertone to himself, " / be- 

 lieve he's killed/ " And thereupon he swung down the stand-stairs, 

 rushed to his horse, and clapping spurs to his sides, struck across the 

 country to the spot. 



Long before he got there the increased uproar of the spectators 

 announced the final struggle ; and, looking over his shoulder, he saw 

 white jacket hugging his horse home, closely followed by red, and 

 shooting past the winning-post. 



" Dash that Mr. Sponge ! " growled his lordship, as the cheers of 

 the winners closed the scene. 



" The brute's won, in spite of him ! " gasped Buckram, turning 

 deadly pale at the sight. 



CHAPTER LXIX. 



HOW OTHER THINGS CAME OFF. 



'Twere hard to say whether Lucy's joy at Sponge's safety, or Lord 

 Scamperdale's grief at poor Spraggon's death, was most overpower- 

 ing. Each found relief in a copious flood of tears. Lucy sobbed 

 and laughed, and sobbed and laughed again ; and seemed as if her 

 little heart would burst its bounds. The mob, ever open to sentiment 

 — especially the sentiment of beauty — cheered and shouted as she 

 rode with her lover from the winning to the weighing-post. 



" A', she's a bonny un ! " exclaimed a countryman, looking in- 

 tently up in her face. 



" She is that ! " cried another doing the same. 



" Three cheers for the lady ! " shouted a tall Shaggyford rough, 

 taking off his woolly cap, and waving it. 



" Hoo-rtxj ! Jwo-r&y ! hoo-rixj I " shouted a group of flannel-clad 

 navvies. 



" Three for white jacket ! " then roared a blue-coated butcher, 

 who had won as many half-crowns on the race. — Three cheers were 

 #ivcn for the unwilling winner. 



