have six to one."

"Eleven to two, and no mistake," said this keeper of a second-
rate gaming-house, who, known by the flattering appellation of
Hump Chippendale, now turned with malignant abruptness from
the heir apparent of an English earldom.

"You shall have six to one, my Lord," said Captain Spruce, a
debonair personage with a well-turned silk hat arranged a
little aside, his coloured cravat tied with precision, his
whiskers trimmed like a quickset hedge. Spruce, who had
earned his title of Captain on the plains of Newmarket, which
had witnessed for many a year his successful exploits, had a
weakness for the aristocracy, who knowing his graceful
infirmity patronized him with condescending dexterity,
acknowledged his existence in Pall Mall as well as at
Tattersalls, and thus occasionally got a point more than the
betting out of him. Hump Chippendale had none of these gentle
failings; he was a democratic leg, who loved to fleece a
noble, and thought all men were born equal--a consoling creed
that was a hedge for his hump.

"Seven to four against the favourite; seven to two against
Caravan; eleven to two against Mango. What about Benedict?
Will any one do anything about Pocket Hercules? Thirty to one
against Dardanelles."

"Done."

"Five and thirty ponies to one against Phosphorus," shouted a