Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

  CHAPTER LXVIII

  HOW THE 'GRAND ARISTOCRATIC' CAME OFF

  Steeple-chases are generally crude, ill-arranged things. Few sportsmen willact as stewards a second time; while the victim to the popular delusion ofpatronizing our 'national sports' considers--like gentlemen who have servedthe office of sheriff, or church-warden--that once in a lifetime is enough;hence, there is always the air of amateur actorship about them. There isalways something wanting or forgotten. Either they forget the ropes, orthey forget the scales, or they forget the weights, or they forget thebell, or--more commonly still--some of the parties forget themselves.Farmers, too, are easily satisfied with the benefits of an irresponsiblemob careering over their farms, even though some of them are attired in themiscellaneous garb of hunting and racing costume. Indeed, it is just thismixture of two sports that spoils both; steeple-chasing being neitherhunting nor racing. It has not the wild excitement of the one, nor theaccurate calculating qualities of the other. The very horses have apeculiar air about them--neither hunters nor hacks, nor yet exactlyrace-horses. Some of them, doubtless, are fine, good-looking,well-conditioned animals; but the majority are lean, lathy, sunken-eyed,woe-begone, iron-marked, desperately-abused brutes, lacking all the livelyenergy that characterizes the movements of the up-to-the-mark hunter. Inthe early days of steeple-chasing a popular fiction existed that the horseswere hunters; and grooms and fellows used to come nicking and grinning upto masters of hounds at checks and critical times, requesting them to notethat they were out, in order to ask for certificates of the horses havingbeen 'regularly hunted'--a species of regularity than which nothing couldbe more irregular. That nuisance, thank goodness, is abated. Asteeple-chaser now generally stands on his own merits; a change for whichsportsmen may be thankful.

  But to our story.

  The whole country was in a commotion about this 'Aristocratic'. Theunsophisticated looked upon it as a grand _reunion_ of the aristocracy; andsmart bonnets and cloaks, and jackets and parasols were ordered with theliberality incident to a distant view of Christmas. As Viney sipped hissherry-cobler of an evening, he laughed at the idea of ason-of-a-day-labourer like himself raising such a dust. Letters camepouring in to the clerk of the course from all quarters; some asking aboutbeds; some about breakfasts; some about stakes; some about stables; someabout this thing, some about that. Every room in the Old Duke of Cumberlandwas speedily bespoke. Post-horses rose in price, and Dobbin and Smiler, andJumper and Cappy, and Jessy and Tumbler were jobbed from the neighbouringfarmers, and converted for the occasion into posters. At last came thegreat and important day--day big with the fate of thousands of pounds; forthe betting-list vermin had been plying their trade briskly throughout thekingdom, and all sorts of rumours had been raised relative to the qualitiesand conditions of the horses.

  Who doesn't know the chilling feel of an English spring, or rather of a dayat the turn of the year before there is any spring? Our gala-day was aperfect specimen of the order--a white frost succeeded by a bright sun,with an east wind, warming one side of the face and starving the other. Itwas neither a day for fishing, nor hunting, nor coursing, nor anything butfarming. The country, save where there were a few lingering patches ofturnips, was all one dingy drab, with abundant scalds on the undrainedfallows. The grass was more like hemp than anything else. The very rusheswere yellow and sickly.

  Long before midday the whole country was in commotion. The same sort ofpeople commingled that one would expect to see if there was a balloon to goup, and a man to go down, or be hung at the same place. Fine ladies in allthe colours of the rainbow; and swarthy, beady-eyed dames, with theirstalwart, big-calved, basket-carrying comrades; gentle young people frombehind the counter; Dandy Candy merchants from behind the hedge;rough-coated dandies with their silver-mounted whips; and Shaggyfordroughs, in their baggy, poacher-like coats, and formidable clubs; carriagesand four, and carriages and pairs; and gigs and dog-carts, andWhitechapels, and Newport Pagnels, and long carts, and short carts, anddonkey carts, converged from all quarters upon the point of attraction atBroom Hill.

  If Farmer Scourgefield had made a mob, he could not have got one that wouldbe more likely to do damage to his farm than this steeple-chase one. Norwas the assemblage confined to the people of the country, for theGranddiddle Junction, by its connection with the great network of railways,enabled all patrons of this truly national sport to sweep down upon thespot like flocks of wolves; and train after train disgorged a generousmixture of sharps and flats, commingling with coatless, baggy-breechedvagabonds, the emissaries most likely of the Peeping Toms and InfallibleJoes, if not the worthies themselves.

  'Dear, but it's a noble sight!' exclaimed Viney to Watchorn as they sat ontheir horses, below a rickety green-baize-covered scaffold, labelled,'GRAND STAND; admission, Two-and-sixpence,' raised against Scourgefield'sstack-yard wall, eyeing the population pouring in from all parts. 'Dear,but it's a noble sight!' said he, shading the sun from his eyes, andendeavouring to identify the different vehicles in the distance. 'Yonder'sthe 'bus comin' again,' said he, looking towards the station, 'loaded likea market-gardener's turnip-waggon. That'll pay,' added he, with a knowingleer at the landlord of the Hen Angel, Newington Butts. 'And who have wehere, with the four horses and sky-blue flunkeys? Jawleyford, as I live!'added he, answering himself; adding, 'The beggar had better pay me what heowes.'

  How great Mr. Viney was! Some people, who have never had anything to dowith horses, think it incumbent upon them, when they have, to sporttop-boots, and accordingly, for the first time in his life, Viney appearsin a pair of remarkably hard, tight, country-made boots, above which are apair of baggy white cords, with the dirty finger-marks of the tailor stillupon them. He sports a single-breasted green cutaway coat, withbasket-buttons, a black satin roll-collared waistcoat, and a new white silkhat, that shines in the bright sun like a fish-kettle. His blue-stripedkerchief is secured by a butterfly brooch. Who ever saw an innkeeper thatcould resist a brooch?

  He is riding a miserable rat of a badly clipped, mouse-coloured pony thatlooks like a velocipede under him.

  His companion, Mr. Watchorn, is very great, and hardly condescends to knowthe country people who claim his acquaintance as a huntsman. He is a HotelKeeper--master of the Hen Angel, Newington Butts. Enoch Wriggle standsbeside them, dressed in the imposing style of a cockney sportsman. He hasbeen puffing 'Sir Danapalus (the Bart.)' in public, and taking all the oddshe can get against him in private. Watchorn knows that it is easier to makea horse lose than win. The restless-looking, lynx-eyed caitiff, in thedirty green shawl, with his hands stuffed into the front pockets of thebrown tarriar coat, is their jockey, the renowned Captain Hangallows; heanswers to the name of Sam Slick in Mr. Spavin the horse-dealer's yard inOxford Street, when not in the country on similar excursions to thepresent. And now in the throng on the principal line are two conspicuoushorses--a piebald and a white--carrying Mr. Sponge and Lucy Glitters. Lucyappears as she did on the frosty-day hunt, glowing with health and beauty,and rather straining the seams of Lady Scattercash's habit with theadditional _embonpoint_ she has acquired by early hours in the country. Shehas made Mr. Sponge a white silk jacket to ride in, which he has on underhis grey tarriar coat, and a cap of the same colour is in his hard hat. Hehas discarded the gosling-green cords for cream-coloured leathers, and, toplease Lucy, has actually substituted a pair of rose-tinted tops for the'hogany bouts'. Altogether he is a great swell, and very like thebridegroom.

  But hark--what a crash! The leaders of Sir Harry Scattercash's drag startat a blind fiddler's dog stationed at the gate leading into the fields, awheel catches the post, and in an instant the sham captains are scatteredabout the road: Bouncey on his head, Seedeyhuck across the wheelers, Quodon his back, and Sir Harry astride the gate. Meanwhile, the old fiddler,regardless of the shouts of the men and the shrieks of the ladies, scrapesaway with the appropriate tune of 'The Devil among the Tailors!' A rush tothe horses' heads arrests further mischief, the dislodged captains are atlength righted,
the nerves of the ladies composed, and Sir Harry once moreessays to drive them up the hill to the stand. That feat beingaccomplished, then came the unloading, and consternation, and huddling ofthe tight-laced occupants at the idea of these female _women_ comingamongst them, and the usual peeping and spying, and eyeing of the'_creatures_.' 'What impudence!' 'Well, I think!' ''Pon my word!' 'Whatnext!'--exclamations that were pretty well lost upon the fair objects ofthem amid the noise and flutter and confusion of the scene. But hark again!What's up now?

  'Hooray!' 'hooray!' 'h-o-o-o-ray!' 'Three cheers for the Squire!H-o-o-o-ray!' Old Puff as we live! The 'amazin' instance of a pop'lar man'greeted by the Swillingford snobs. The old frost-bitten dandy is flatteredby the cheers, and bows condescendingly ere he alights from thewell-appointed mail phaeton. See how graciously the ladies receive him, as,having ascended the stairs, he appears among them. 'A man is never too oldto marry' is their maxim.

  The cry is still, 'They come! they come!' See at a hand-gallop, with hisbay pony in a white lather, rides Pacey, grinning from ear to ear, with hisred-backed betting-book peeping out of the breast pocket of his browncutaway. He is staring and gaping to see who is looking at him.

  Pacey has made such a book as none but a wooden-headed boy like himselfcould make. He has been surfeited with tips. Peeping Tom had advised him toback Daddy Longlegs; and, _nullus error_, Sneaking Joe has counselled himthat the 'Baronet' will be 'California without cholera, and gold withoutdanger'; while Jemmy something, the jockey, who advertises that his 'tongueis not for falsehood framed,' though we should think it was framed fornothing else, has urged him to back Parvo to half the amount of thenational debt.

  Altogether, Pacey has made such a mess that he cannot possibly win, and maylose almost any sum from a thousand pounds down to a hundred and eighty.Mr. Sponge has got well on with him, through the medium of Jack Spraggon.

  Pacey is now going to what he calls 'compare'--see that he has got his betsbooked right; and, throwing his right leg over his cob's neck, he blobs onto the ground; and, leaving the pony to take care of itself, disappears inthe crowd.

  What a hubbub! what roarings, and shoutings, and recognizings! 'Bless myheart! who'd have thought of seeing you?' and, 'By jingo! what's sent _you_here?'

  'My dear Waffles,' cries Jawleyford, rushing up to our Laverick Wellsfriend (who is looking very debauched), 'I'm overjoyed to see you. Do comeupstairs and see Mrs. Jawleyford and the dear girls. It was only lastnight we were talking about you.' And so Jawleyford hurries Mr. Wafflesoff, just as Waffles is _in extremis_ about his horse.

  Looking around the scene there seems to be everybody that we have had thepleasure of introducing to the reader in the course of Mr. Sponge's Tour.Mr. and Mrs. Springwheat in their dog-cart, Mrs. Springey's figure lookingas though 'wheat had got above forty, my lord'; old Jog and his handsomewife in the ugly old phaeton, well garnished with children, and a couple ofsticks in the rough peeping out of the apron, Gustavus James held up in hismother's arms, with the curly blue feather nodding over his nose. There isalso Farmer Peastraw, and faces that a patient inspection enables us toappropriate to Dribble, and Hook, and Capon, and Calcot, and Lumpleg, andCrane of Crane Hall, and Charley Slapp of red-coat times--people look sodifferent in plain clothes to what they do in hunting ones. Here, too, isGeorge Cheek, running down with perspiration, having run over from Dr.Latherington's, for which he will most likely 'catch it' when he gets back;and oh, wonder of wonders, here's Robert Foozle himself!

  'Well, Robert, you've come to the steeple-chase?'

  'Yes, I've come to the steeple-chase.'

  'Are you fond of steeple-chases?'

  'Yes, I'm fond of steeple-chases.'

  'I dare say you never were at one before,' observes his mother.

  'No, I never was at one before,' replies Robert.

  And though last not least, here's Facey Romford, with his arm in a sling,on Mr. Hobler, come to look after that sivin-p'und-ten, which we wish hemay get.

  Hark! there's a row below the stand, and Viney is seen in a state ofexcitement inquiring for Mr. Washball. Pacey has objected to a gentlemanrider, and Guano and Puffington have differed on the point. A nice, slim,well-put-on lad (Buckram's rough rider) has come to the scales and claimedto be allowed 3 lb. as the Honourable Captain Boville. Finding the pointquestioned, he abandons the 'handle', and sinks into plain Captain Boville.Pacey now objects to him altogether. 'S-c-e-u-s-e me, sir; s-c-e-u-s-e me,sir,' simpers our friend Dick Bragg, sidling up to the objector with a sortof tendency of his turn-back-wristed hand to his hat. 'S-c-e-u-s-e me, sir;s-c-e-u-s-e me,' repeats he, 'but I think you was wrong, sir, in objectingto Captain Boville, sir, as a gen'l'man rider, sir.'

  'Why?' demands Pacey, in the full flush of victory.

  'Oh, sir--because, sir--in fact, sir--he _is_ a gen'l'man, sir.'

  '_Is_ a gentleman! How do _you_ know?' demands Pacey, in the same tone asbefore.

  'Oh, sir, he's a gen'l'man--an undoubted gen'l'man. Everything about himshows that. Does nothing--breeches by Anderson--boots by Bartley; besideswhich, he drinks wine every day, and has a whole box of cigars in hisbedroom. But don't take my word for it, pray,' continued Bragg, seeingPacey was wavering; 'don't take my word for it, pray. There's a gen'l'man,a countryman of his, somewhere about,' added he, looking anxiously into thesurrounding crowd--there's a gen'l'man, a countryman of his, somewhereabout, if we could but find him,' Bragg standing on his tiptoes, andexclaiming, 'Mr. Buckram! Mr. Buckram! Has anybody seen anything of Mr.Buckram!'

  'Here!' replied a meek voice from behind; upon which there was an elbowingthrough the crowd, and presently a most respectable, rosy-gilled,grey-haired, hawbuck-looking man, attired in a new brown cutaway, withbright buttons and a velvet collar, with a buff waistcoat, came twirling anash-stick in one hand, and fumbling the silver in his drab trousers' pocketwith the other, in front of the bystanders.

  'Oh! 'ere he is!' exclaimed Bragg, appealing to the stranger with a hasty'_You_ know Captain Boville, don't you?'

  'Why, now, as to the matter of that,' replied the gentleman, gathering allthe loose silver up into his hand and speaking very slowly, just as acountry gentleman, who has all the live-long day to do nothing in, may besupposed to speak--' Why, now, as to the matter of that,' said he, eyeingPacey intently, and beginning to drop the silver slowly as he spoke, 'Ican't say that I've any very 'ticklar 'quaintance with the captin. I knowshim, in course, just as one knows a neighbour's son. The captin's a gooddeal younger nor me,' continued he, raising his new eight-and-sixpennyParisian, as if to show his sandy grey hair. 'I'm a'most sixty; and he, Idare say, is little more nor twenty,' dropping a half-crown as he said it.'But the captin's a nice young gent--a nice young gent, without anyblandishment, I should say; and that's more nor one can say of all younggents nowadays,' said Buckram, looking at Pacey as he spoke, and droppingtwo consecutive half-crowns.

  'Why, but you live near him, don't you?' interrupted Bragg.

  'Near him,' repeated Buckram, feeling his well-shaven chin thoughtfully.'Why, yes--that's to say, near his dad. The fact is,' continued he, 'I've alittle independence of my own,' dropping a heavy five-shilling piece as hesaid it,' and his father--old Bo, as I call him--adjoins me; and if eitherof us 'appen to have a _battue_, or a 'aunch of wenzun, and a few friends,we inwite each other, and wicey wersey, you know,' letting off a lot ofshillings and sixpences. And just at the moment the blind fiddler struck up'The Devil among the Tailors,' when the shouts and laughter of the mobclosed the scene.

  And now gentlemen, who heretofore have shown no more of the jockey thanCinderella's feet in the early part of the pantomime disclose of her ballattire, suddenly cast off the pea-jackets and bearskin wraps, and shawlsand overcoats of winter, and shine forth in all the silken flutter ofsummer heat.

  We know of no more humiliating sight than misshapen gentlemen playing atjockeys. Playing at soldiers is bad enough, but playing at jockeys isinfinitely worse--above all, playing at steeple-chase jockeys, combining,as they ge
nerally do, all the worst features of the hunting-field andracecourse--unsympathizing boots and breeches, dirty jackets that neverfit, and caps that won't keep on. What a farce to see the great bulkyfellows go to scale with their saddles strapped to their backs, as if toillustrate the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a puddingplate!

  But the weighed-in ones are mounting. See, there's Jack Spraggon getting ahoist on to Daddy Longlegs! Did ever mortal see such a man for a jockey? Hehas cut off the laps of a stunner tartan jacket, and looks like a greatbackgammon-board. He has got his head into an old gold-banded militaryforaging-cap, which comes down almost on to the rims of his greattortoise-shell spectacles. Lord Scamperdale stands with his hand on thehorse's mane, talking earnestly to Jack, doubtless giving him his finalinstructions. Other jockeys emerge from various parts of thefarm-buildings; some out of stables; some out of cow-houses; others frombeneath cart-sheds. The scene becomes enlivened with the varied colours ofthe riders--red, yellow, green, blue, violet, and stripes without end. Thencomes the usual difficulty of identifying the parties, many of whosemothers wouldn't know them.

  'That's Captain Tongs,' observes Miss Simperley, 'in the blue. I rememberdancing with him at Bath, and he did nothing but talk aboutsteeple-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 fanciesCaptain Pusher, in the pink.

  'What a squat little jockey!' exclaims Miss Hamilton, as a little dumplingof a man in Lincoln green is led past the stand on a fine bay horse, someone recognizing 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, ridesHercules quietly past the stand, his whip-hand resting on his thigh, andhis head turned to his fair companion on the white.

  'Oh, the wretch!' sneers Miss Amelia; and the fair sisters look at Lucy andthen at him with the utmost disgust.

  Mr. Sponge may now be doubled up by half a dozen falls ere either of themwould suggest the propriety of having him bled.

  Lucy's cheeks are rather blanched with the 'pale cast of thought,' for sheis not sufficiently initiated in the mysteries of steeple-chasing to knowthat it is often quite as good for a man to lose as to win, which it hadjust been quietly arranged between Sponge and Buckram should be the case onthis occasion, Buckram having got uncommonly 'well on' to the losing tune.Perhaps, however, Lucy was thinking of the peril, not the profit of thething.

  The young ladies on the stand eye her with mingled feelings of pity anddisdain, while the elderly ones shake their heads, call her a boldhussy--declare she's not so pretty--adding that they 'wouldn't have come ifthey'd known,' &c. &c.

  But it is half-past two (an hour and a half after time), and there is atlast a disposition evinced by some of the parties to go to the post.Broad-backed parti-coloured jockeys are seen converging that way, and thebetting-men close in, getting more and more clamorous for odds. What ahubbub! How they bellow! How they roar! A universal deafness seems to havecome over the whole of them. 'Seven to one 'gain the Bart.!' screamsone--'I'll take eight!' roars another. 'Five to one agen Herc'les!' cries athird--'Done!' roars a fourth. 'Twice over!' rejoins the other--'Done!'replies the taker. 'Ar'll take five to one agin the Daddy!'--'I'll laysix!' 'What'll any one lay 'gin Parvo?' And so they raise such an uproarthat 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'ma 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'saccusing the virtuous Mr. Spraggon of handing his extra weight to LordScamperdale; 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 hourafter 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 ofthem, moving about in all directions: some taking an up-gallop, others adown; some a spicy trot, others walking to and fro; while one has still hismuzzle on, lest he should unship his rider and eat him; and another's groomfollows, imploring the mob to keep off his heels if they don't want theirheads in their hands. The noisy bell at length summons the scattered forcesto the post, and the variegated riders form into as good a line ascircumstances will allow. Just as Mr. Sponge turns his horse's head Lucyhands him her little silver sherry-flask, which our friend drains to thedregs. As he returns it, with a warm pressure of her soft hand, a pent-upflood of tears burst their bounds, and suffuse her lustrous eyes. She turnsaway to hide her emotion; at the same instant a wild shout rends theair--'W-h-i-r-r! They're off!'

  Thirteen get away, one turns tail, and our friend in the Lincoln green isleft performing a _pas seul_, asking the rearing horse, with an oath, if hethinks 'he stole him'? while the mob shout and roar; and one wicked wag, incoaching parlance, advises him to pay the difference, and get inside.

  But what a display of horsemanship is exhibited by the flyers! Tongs comesoff at the first fence, the horse making straight for a pond, while therest rattle on in a mass. The second fence is small, but there's a ditch onthe far side, and Pusher and Gander severally measure their lengths on therushy pasture beyond. Still there are ten left, and nobody ever reckonedupon these getting to the far end.

  'Master wins, for a 'undr'd!' exclaims Leather, as, getting into the thirdfield, Mr. Sponge takes a decided lead; and Lucy, encouraged by the sound,looks up, and sees her 'white jacket' throwing the dry fallow in the facesof the field.

  'Oh, how I hope he will!' exclaims she, clasping her hands, with upturnedeyes; but when she ventures on another look, she sees old Spraggon drawingupon him, Hangallows's flaming red jacket not far off, and several othersnearer than she liked. Still the tail was beginning to form. Another fence,and that a big one, draws it out. A striped jacket is down, and the horse,after a vain effort to rise, sinks lifeless on the ground. On they go allthe same!

  Loud yells of exciting betting burst from the spectators, and Buckram getswell on for the cross.

  There are now five in front--Sponge, Spraggon, Hangallows, Boville, andanother; and already the pace begins to tell. It wasn't possible to run itat the rate they started. Spraggon makes a desperate effort to get thelead; and Sponge, seeing Boville handy, pulls his horse, and lets thelight-weight make play over a rough, heavy fallow with the chestnut. Jackspurs and flogs, and grins and foams at the mouth. Thus they get half roundthe oval course. They are now directly in front of the hill, and thespectators gaze with intense anxiety;--now vociferating the name of thishorse, now of that; now shouting 'Red jacket!' now 'White!' while the blindfiddler perseveres with the old melody of--'The Devil among the Tailors.'

  'Now they come to the brook!' exclaims Leather, who has been over theground; and as he speaks, Lucy distinctly sees Mr. Sponge's gather aneffort to clear it; and--oh, horror!--the horse falls--he's down--no, he'sup!--and her lover's in his seat again; and she flatters herself it was hersherry that saved him. Splash!--a horse and rider duck under; three getover; two go in; now another clears it, and the rest turn tail.

  What splashing and screaming, and whipping and spurring, and how hopelessthe chance of any of them to recover their lost ground. The race is nowclearly between five. Now for the wall! It's five feet high, built of heavyblocks, and strong in the staked-out part. As he nears it, Jack sits wellback, getting Daddy Longlegs well by the head, and giving him a refresherwith the whip. It is Jack's last move! His horse comes, neck and croupover, rolli
ng Jack up like a ball of worsted on the far side. At the samemoment, Multum-in-Parvo goes at it full tilt; and, not rising an inch,sends Captain Boville flying one way, his saddle another, himself a third,and the stones all ways. Mr. Sponge then slips through, closely followed byHangallows and a jockey in yellow, with a tail of three after them. Theythen put on all the steam they can raise over the twenty-acre pasture thatfollows.

  The white!--the red!--the yaller! The red!--the white!--the yaller! andanybody's race! A sheet would cover them!--crack! whack! crack! how theyflog! Hercules springs at the sound.

  Many of the excited spectators begin hallooing, and straddling, and workingtheir arms as if their gestures and vociferations would assist the race.Lord Scamperdale stands transfixed. He is staring through his silverspectacles at the awkwardly lying ball that represents poor Spraggon.

  'By Heavens!' exclaims he, in an undertone to himself, 'I believe he'skilled!' 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 announcedthe final struggle; and looking over his shoulder, he saw white jackethugging his horse home, closely followed by red, and shooting past thewinning-post.

  'Dash that Mr. Sponge!' growled his lordship, as the cheers of the winnersclosed the scene.

  'The brute's won, in spite of him!' gasped Buckram, turning deadly pale atthe sight.