e little scut; he's sold me last year's kyard!

_Cattle-Dealer (shouting)._ Hi, sthop him there!

_Farmer._ Whist, let him go. Let him trap some others first the way I'll
not be the only mug on the market this day.

_Trickster (setting up his table and jerking his cards about)._ I'm afther
losin' a pony to thim robbers beyant, but, as Pierpont Rockafeller said to
Jawn D. Morgan, "business is business, an' if ye don't speculate ye won't
accumulate." Spot the dame and my money's yours; spot the blank and yours
is mine. "The quickness of the hand deceives the eye, or vicy-versy," as
Lord Carnegie remarked to Andrew Rothschild. Walk up, walk up, my sporty
gintlemen and thry yer luck wid the owld firm.

_Farmer._ There go the harses down to the post. Who's that leadin' on the
black?

_Dealer._ Young Misther Darley, no less. 'Tis a great fella for all kinds
of divarsion he is, the same. I was beyant to Darleystown this week past
and found him fightin' a main o'cocks before the fire in his grandmother's
drawin'-room. Herself riz up off her bed and gave the two of us the father
and mother of a dhrubbin' wid her crutch, an' she desthroyed wid the gout
an' all.

_Farmer._ 'Tis herself has the great heart. Hey! that's never Clancy goin'
down on the owld foxey mare? Faith, it's sorra a ha'porth cud she course or
lep these fifteen years.

_Dealer._ Lep, is ut? Shure she'll spring out like a birrd an' fear no foe
by dint of the two bottles of potheen she has taken an' the couple o' lads
Clancy has stationed at ivvery jump to let a roar at her an' hearthen her
wid the sthroke of an ash-plant as she comes at ut.

_First Country Boy._ Arrah, they're off, they're away!

_Second Country Boy._ Thin let us down to the big double, avic, and be the
grace of God we'll see a corpse.

_Girl in Brown (hopping from one foot to the other)._ Can you see Freddy,
Uncle George? Is he in front? I'm sure he is. He hasn't fallen, has he? He
won't fall, will he? I'm sure he will. I do hope he'll win; I _know_ he
won't. The jumps look frightful, and I'm certain he'll break his darling
neck. Oh, where _is_ he, Uncle George?

_Uncle George._ Here, take my field-glasses.

_Girl in Brown._ I can't see, I can't see.

_Uncle George (drily)._ Try looking through them the other way round.

_Beshawled Crone (towing an aged beggar-man who wears a framed placard
reminding the public that "charity covers a multitude of sins," and
announcing that the bea