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 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 privately he betted on commission. His secret service to-day was to
bet against his noble employer's own horse, and so he at once sung ou