hand. "No--I won't do that," replied the man, "but I'll tell you what
I'll do with you,--I'll lay you two to one, in fives or fifties if you
like, that you knew before you axed, and that Thunderbolt don't win the
Riddlesworth." "Really," said Mr. Jorrocks, "I'm not a betting man."
"Then, wot the 'ell business have you at Newmarket?" was all the answer
he got. Disgusted with such inhospitable impertinence, Mr. Jorrocks
turned on his heel and walked away. Before the "White Hart" Inn was a
smartish pony phaeton, in charge of a stunted stable lad. "I say, young
chap," inquired Jorrocks, "whose is that?" "How did you know that I
was a young chap?" inquired the abortion turning round. "Guessed it,"
replied Jorrocks, chuckling at his own wit. "Then guess whose it is."

"Pray, are your clocks here by London time?" he asked of a respectable
elderly-looking man whom he saw turn out of the entry leading to the
Kingston rooms, and take the usual survey first up the town and then
down it, and afterwards compose his hands in his breeches-pockets, there
to stand to see the "world." [17] "Come now, old 'un--none o' your tricks
here--you've got a match on against time, I suppose," was all the answer
he could get after the man (old R--n the ex-flagellator) had surveyed
him from head to foot.

[Footnote 17: Newmarket or London--it's all the same--"The world" is but
composed of one's own acquaintance.]

We need hardly say after all these rebuffs that when Mr. Jorrocks met
the Yorkshireman, he was not in the best possible humour; indeed, to say
nothing of the extreme sharpness and suspicion of the people, we know of
no place where a man, not fond of racing, is so completely out of his
element as at Newmarket, for with the exception of a little "elbow
shaking" in the evening, there is literally and truly nothing else