peace. But one day there comes a roaring crowd to the
park, and, though pussy does not know it, her good days are passed. Look
at the mob that surges and bellows on the stands and in the enclosures.
They are well dressed and comfortable, but a more unpleasant gang could
not be seen. Try to distinguish a single face that shows kindness or
goodness--you fail; this rank roaring crowd is made up of betting-men
and dupes, and it is hard to say which are the worse. There is no
horse-racing in the winter, and so these people have come out to see a
succession of innocent creatures die, and to bet on the event. The slow
coursing of the old style would not do for the fiery betting-man; but we
shall have fun fast and furious presently. The assembly seems frantic;
flashy men with eccentric coats and gaudy hats of various patterns stand
about and bellow their offers to bet; feverish dupes move hither and
thither, waiting for chances; the rustle of notes, the chink of money,
sound here and there, and the immense clamour swells and swells, till a
stunning roar dulls the senses, and to an imaginative gazer it seems as
though a horde of fiends had been let loose to make day hideous. A
broad smooth stretch of grass lies opposite to the stands, and at one
end of this half-mile stretch there runs a barrier, the bottom of which
is fringed with straw and furze. If you examined that barrier, you would
find that it really opens into a wide dense copse, and that a hare or
rabbit which whisks under it is safe on the far side. At the other side
of this field a long fenced lane opens, and seems to be closed at the
blind end by a wide door. To the right of the blind lane is a tiny hut
surrounded by bushes, and by the side of the hut a few scattered men
loaf in a purposeless way. Presently a red-coated man canters across the
smooth green, and then the diabolical tumult of the stands reaches
ear-splitting intensity. Your betting-man is cool enough in reality; but
he likes to simulate mad eagerness until it appears as though the
swollen veins of face or throat would burst. And what is going on at the
closed end of that blind lane? On the strip of turf around the wide
field the demure trainers lead their melancholy-looking dogs. Each
greyhound is swathed in warm clothing, but they all look wretched; and,
as they pick their way along with dainty steps, no one would guess that
the sight of a certain poor little animal would convert each doleful
hound into