rowded with people, most of
them of that class which, in Irish phrase, goes by the appellation of
squireen--a species of human lurcher, without any of the good properties
of either class from which it derives its origin, but abounding in
the bad traits of both. They lounged along, followed by pointers and
wire-haired greyhounds, their hands stuck in their coat-pockets, and
their hats set well back on their heads. Following in the train of this
respectable cortege, I reached the market-house, upon the steps of which
several 'sporting gentlemen' of a higher order were assembled. Elbowing
my way with some difficulty through these, I mounted a dirty and sandy
stair to a large room, usually employed by the magistrates for their
weekly sessions; here, at a long table, sat the race committee, an
imposing display of books, pens, and papers before them. A short little
man, with a powdered head, and a certain wheezing chuckle when he spoke
that voluntarily suggested the thought of apoplexy, seemed to be the
president of the meeting.

The room was so crowded with persons of every class that I could with
difficulty catch what was going forward. I looked anxiously round to see
if I could not recognise some friend or acquaintance, but every face
was strange to me. The only one I had ever seen before was Mr. Burke
himself, who with his back to the fire was edifying a select circle of
his friends by what I discovered, from the laughter of his auditory, was
a narrative of his visit to myself. The recital must have owed something
to his ingenuity in telling, for indeed the gentlemen seemed convulsed
with mirth; and when Mr. Burke concluded, it was plain to see that he
stood several feet higher in the estimation of hie acquaintances.

'Silence!' wheezed the little man with the white head: 'it is a quarter
past twelve o'clock, and I'll not wait any longer.'

'Read the list, Maurice,' cried some one. 'As it is only "a walk over,"
you needn't lose any time.'

'Here, then, No. 1--Captain Fortescue's Tramp.' 'Withdrawn,' said a
voice in the crowd. 'No. 2--Harry Studdard's Devil-may-care.'

'Paid forfeit,' cried another.

'No. 3--Sir George O'Brien's Billy-the-bowl.' 'Gone home again,' was the
answer. 'No. 4--Tom Molloy's Cathleen.'

'All right!' shouted Mr. Burke, from the fireplace" 'Who rides?' asked
the president.

'Ulick!' repeated half-a-dozen voices together.

'Eleven stone eight,' said the little man.

'And a pound for the m