Our friend has thrust his hands into the deepest depths of his
breeches-pocket, and cocking one eye at the afore-named blue uniform,
asks--

"_Will_ you back the bay?"

The inquiry has been made in such a do-if-you-dare tone, that to hesitate
would evince a cowardice unworthy of the first coachman to the first peer
in Belgrave-square, and a leg of mutton and trimmings are duly entered in
a greasy pocket-book, as dependent upon the result of the Derby.

"The son of Tros, fair Ganymede," is again called into requisition, and
the party are getting, as Tom says, "As happy as Harry Stockracy."

"I've often heerd that chap mentioned," remarks the blue uniform, "but I
never seed no one as know'd him."

"No more did I," replies Tom, "though he must be a fellow such as us, up
to everything."

All the coachmen cough, strike an attitude, and look wise.

"Now here comes a sort of chap I despises," remarks Tom, pointing to a
steady-looking man, without encumbrance, who had just entered the yard,
evidently a coachman to a pious family; "see him handle a _hoss_.
Smear--smear--like bees-waxing a table. Nothing varminty about
him--nothing of this sort of thing (spreading himself out to the gaze of
his admiring auditory), but I suppose he's useful with slow cattle, and
that's a consolation to us as can't abear them." And with this negative