little man vociferously and repeatedly.

"I will give forty," said Lord Milford. No answer,--nothing
done.

"Forty to one!" murmured Egremont who stood against
Phosphorus. A little nervous, he said to the peer in the
white great coat, "Don't you think that Phosphorus may after
all have some chance?"

"I should be cursed sorry to be deep against him," said the
peer.

Egremont with a quivering lip walked away. He consulted his
book; he meditated anxiously. Should he hedge? It was
scarcely worth while to mar the symmetry of his winnings; he
stood "so well" by all the favourites; and for a horse at
forty to one. No; he would trust his star, he would not
hedge.

"Mr Chippendale," whispered the peer in the white great coat,
"go and press Mr Egremont about Phosphorus. I should not be
surprised if you got a good thing."

At this moment, a huge, broad-faced, rosy-gilled fellow, with
one of those good-humoured yet cunning countenances that we
meet occasionally on the northern side of the Trent, rode up
to the ring on a square cob and dismounting entered the
circle. He was a carcase butcher, famous in Carnaby market,
and the prime councillor of a distinguished nobleman for whom