struck upon my ear. I looked out, and saw Thornton standing in the yard,
attired with all his original smartness of boot and breeches: he was
employed in smoking a cigar, sipping brandy and water, and exercising his
conversational talents in a mixture of slang and jokeyism, addressed to
two or three men of his own rank of life, and seemingly his companions.
His brisk eye soon discovered me, and he swaggered to the carriage door
with that ineffable assurance of manner which was so peculiarly his own.

"Ah, ah, Mr. Pelham," said he, "going to Newmarket, I suppose? bound
there myself--like to be found among my betters. Ha, ha--excuse a pun:
what odds on the favourite? What! you won't bet, Mr. Pelham? close and
sly at present; well, the silent sow sups up all the broth--eh!--"

"I'm not going to Newmarket," I replied: "I never attend races."

"Indeed!" answered Thornton. "Well, if I was as rich as you, I would soon
make or spend a fortune on the course. Seen Sir John Tyrrell? No! He is
to be there. Nothing can cure him of gambling--what's bred in the bone,
Good day, Mr. Pelham--won't keep you any longer--sharp shower coming on.
'The devil will soon be basting his wife with a leg of mutton,' as the
proverb says--au plaisir, Mr. Pelham."

And at these words my post-boy started, and released me from my bete
noire. I spare my reader an account of my miscellaneous reflections on
Thornton, Dawton, Vincent, politics, Glanville, and Ellen, and will land
him, without further delay, at Chester Park.

I was ushered through a large oak hall of the reign of James the First,
into a room strongly resembling the principal apartment of a club; two or
three round tables were covered with newspapers, journals, racing