Baboos, jingle and rattle over the ruts on the side roads.

Sweetmeat sellers, with trays of horrible looking filth, made seemingly
of insects, clarified butter, and sugar, dodge through the crowd
dispensing their abominable looking but seemingly much relished wares.
Tall policemen, with blue jackets, red puggries, yellow belts, and
white trousers, stalk up and down with conscious dignity.

A madcap young assistant on his pony comes tearing along across
country. The weighing for the first race is going on; horses are being
saddled, some vicious brute occasionally lashing out, and scattering
the crowd behind him. The ladies are seated round the terraced grand
stand; long strings of horses are being led round and round in a
circle, by the _syces_; vehicles of every description are lying round
the building.

Suddenly a bugle sounds; the judge enters his box; the ever popular old
'Bikram,' who officiates as starter, ambles off on his white cob, and
after him go half-a-dozen handsome young fellows, their silks rustling
and flashing through the fast rising mist.

A hundred field-glasses scan the start; all is silent for a moment.

'They're off!' shout a dozen lungs.

'False start!' echo a dozen more.

The gay colours of the riders flicker confusedly in a jumble. One horse
careers madly along for half the distance, is with difficulty pulled
up, and is then walked slowly back.