"After I am thrown!" cries his Grace, very ugly, and fingering the jewels
on his hilt.

Sir John was awakened by the noise, and turning heavily spilled the whole
of a pint of port on the duke's satin waist coat and breeches. Whereat
Chartersea in a rage flung the bottle at his head with a curse, which it
seems was a habit with his Grace. But the servants coming in, headed by
my old friend the chamberlain, they quieted down. And it was presently
agreed that the horse was to be at noon in the King's Old Road, or Rotten
Row (as it was then beginning to be called), in Hyde Park.

I shall carry to the grave the memory of the next day. I was up betimes,
and over to the White Horse Cellar to see Pollux groomed, where I found a
crowd about the opening into the stable court. "The young American!"
called some one, and to my astonishment and no small annoyance I was
greeted with a "Huzzay for you, sir!" "My groat's on your honour!"

This good-will was owing wholly to the duke's unpopularity with all
classes. Inside, sporting gentlemen in hunting-frocks of red and green,
and velvet visored caps, were shouldering favoured 'ostlers from the
different noblemen's stables; and there was a liberal sprinkling of the
characters who attended the cock mains in Drury Lane and at Newmarket.
At the moment of my arrival the head 'ostler was rubbing down the
stallion's flank.

"Here's ten pounds to ride him, Saunders!" called one of the
hunting-frocks.

"Umph!" sniffed the 'ostler; "ride 'im is it, yere honour? Two hunner