_Grand Old Jockey_ (_aloud_). Well, ARTHUR my lad, in the saddle
again!
Is _that_ your crack mount?

_Rising Young Jockey._ The identical one, WILL.

_Grand Old Jockey._ Dear, dear, what a pity! It quite gives me pain
To see you so wasted.

_Rising Young Jockey._ That's only your fun, WILL.

_Grand Old Jockey._ Nay, nay, not at all! Don't think much of his
points.
He's not bred like a true-blood, nor built like a winner.
Not well put together, so coarse in his joints,
In fact--only fit for a hunting-pack's dinner!

_Rising Young Jockey_ (_laughing_). Oh! "Cat's-meat!" is your cry, is
it, WILLIAM? Well, well!
We shall see about that when the winning-post's handy.

_Grand Old Jockey._ _You_ won't, my brave boy; that a novice could
tell.
You'll be left in the ruck at the end, my young dandy,

_Rising Young Jockey._ Perhaps! Still the pencillers haven't,--as
yet--
Quite knocked the nag out with their furious fever
Of hot opposition. Some cool ones still bet
On his chance of a win.