paid twenty dollars to the office-clerk to see the number,
and determine to buy it up. Here it is. Can you read these figures? for,
hang me if the punch, or the heat, or the dancing, has not made me quite
dizzy."

"Let me see: Number '38," said I, repeating it a couple of times over.

"Yes, that is it. If I could have chanced on it, I 'd have run down
to-morrow by the 'Christobal.' She lies about a mile out, and will weigh
with the ebb, at eight o'clock. That mare--she killed Butcher by a
down leap over a rock, but never scratched herself--is worth at least a
thousand dollars."

"I offered eight hundred for her on mere character," said I, sitting
back, and sipping my liquid with a most profound quietude.

Falkoner was evidently surprised with this announcement; but more so
from the rakish indifference it betrayed about money, than as bespeaking
me rich and affluent. And thus we chatted away till the black waiter
made his appearance to open the windows and prepare for the work of the
day.

"Where are you stopping?" said Falkoner, as we arose from the table.

"At Condor House," said I, boldly giving the name of a very flash hotel.
"But it's too noisy; I don't like it."

"Nor do I. It's confoundedly expensive, too. I wish you would come to
Herrick's; it is not quite so stylish, perhaps, but I think the cookery
is better, and you 'd not pay five dollars a bottle for Madeira, and
eight for Champagne."

"That _is_ smart," said I. "They 've not let me have my bill yet; but I
fancied they were costly folk."

"Well, come and dine with me at Herrick's to-morrow, and decide for
yourself."

"Why not try the Condor with me?" said I.

"Another day, with all my heart; but I have a friend to-morrow, so come
and meet him at six o'clock."

I agreed; and then we chatted on about London and town folks in a way
that, even with all I had drunk, amazed me for the cool impudence in
which I indulged.

"You knew De Courcy, of course," said he, after a long run of mutual
friends had been disposed of.

"Jack?" cried I,--"Jack De Courcy, of the Cold-streams,--yes, I think
I did. Jack and I were like brothers. The last steeplechase I rode in
Ireland was for poor Jack De Courcy: a little chestnut mare with a good
deal of the Arab about her."

"I remember her well,--an active devil, but she could n't go for more
than half a mile."

"Well, I managed to screw a race out of her."

"You must tell me all about that to-morrow; for I f