seemed to be everywhere; he showed himself in a dozen different
places at once, always followed by his jockey, whom he ordered
about in a loud voice, with many excited gesticulations. And how
great his delight was when, as he passed through the crowd, he
heard people exclaim: "That gentleman has a racing stable. His
horses are going to compete!" What bliss thrilled his heart when
he overheard the admiring exclamation of some worthy shopkeeper
who was greatly impressed by the gay silk jacket and the top-
boots!

But, unfortunately, this happiness could not last forever. His
partners arrived, and claimed the jockey in their turn. So M.
Wilkie left the course and strolled about among the carriages,
until at last he found an equipage which was occupied by the young
ladies who had accepted his invitation to supper the evening
before, and who were now making a profuse display of the very
yellowest hair they possessed. This afforded him another
opportunity of attracting public attention, and to giving proofs
of his "form," for he had not filled the box of his carriage with
champagne for nothing. At last the decisive moment came, and he
made himself conspicuous by shouting. "Now! Now! Here he is!
Look! Bravo, Pompier! One hundred on Pompier!"

But, alas! poor Pompier de Nanterre fell exhausted before half the
distance was accomplished; and that evening Wilkie described his
defeat, with a profusion of technical terms that inspired the
uninitiated with the deepest awe. "What a disaster, my friends,"
he exclaimed. "Pompier de Nanterre, an incomparable
steeplechaser, to break down in such a fashion! And beaten by
whom? My Mustapha, an outsider, without any record whatever! The