Catton?" "Yes, and Conolly rides--but mind, three pounds over." "Does
John Bull?" "No John's struck out." "Polly Hopkins does, so does
Talleyrand, also O, Fy! out of Penitence; Beagle and Paradox also--and
perhaps Pickpocket."

Another pause, and the pencils are pulled from the betting-books. The
legs and lords look at each other, but no one likes to lead off. At
length a voice is heard offering to take nine to one he names the
winner. "It's short odds, doing it cautiously. I'll take eight then," he
adds--"sivin!" but no one bites. "What will anyone lay about Trick, by
Catton?" inquires Jem Bland. "I'll lay three to two again him. I'll
take two to one--two ponies to one, and give you a suv. for laying it."
"Carn't" is the answer. "I'll do it, Jem," cries a voice. "No, you
won't," from Bland, not liking his customer. Now they are all at it, and
what a hubbub there is! "I'll back the field--I'll lay--I'll take--I'll
bet--ponies--fifties--hundreds--five hundred to two." "What do you
want, my lord?" "Three to one against Trick, by Catton." "Carn't afford
it--the odds really arn't that in the ring." "Take two--two hundred to
one." "No." "Crockford, you'll do it for me?" "Yes, my lord. Twice over
if you like. Done, done." "Do it again?" "No, thank you."

"Trick, by Catton, don't start!" cries a voice. "Impossible!" exclaim
his backers. "Quite true, I'm just from the weighing-house, and----told
me so himself." "Shame! shame!" roar those who have backed him, and
"honour--rascals--rogues--thieves--robbery--swindle--turf-ruined"--fly
from tongue to tongue, but they are all speakers with never a speaker to
cry order. Meanwhile the lads have galloped by on their hacks with
the horses' cloths to the rubbing-house, and the horses have actually
started, and are now visible in the distance sweeping over the open
heath, apparently without guide or beacon.