o sweep down upon the
spot like flocks of wolves; and train after train disgorged a generous
mixture of sharps and flats, commingling with coatless, baggy-breeched
vagabonds, the emissaries most likely of the Peeping Toms and Infallible
Joes, if not the worthies themselves.

'Dear, but it's a noble sight!' exclaimed Viney to Watchorn as they sat on
their horses, below a rickety green-baize-covered scaffold, labelled,
'GRAND STAND; admission, Two-and-sixpence,' raised against Scourgefield's
stack-yard wall, eyeing the population pouring in from all parts. 'Dear,
but it's a noble sight!' said he, shading the sun from his eyes, and
endeavouring to identify the different vehicles in the distance. 'Yonder's
the 'bus comin' again,' said he, looking towards the station, 'loaded like
a market-gardener's turnip-waggon. That'll pay,' added he, with a knowing
leer at the landlord of the Hen Angel, Newington Butts. 'And who have we
here, with the four horses and sky-blue flunkeys? Jawleyford, as I live!'
added he, answering himself; adding, 'The beggar had better pay me what he
owes.'

How great Mr. Viney was! Some people, who have never had anything to do
with horses, think it incumbent upon them, when they have, to sport
top-boots, and accordingly, for the first time in his life, Viney appears
in a pair of remarkably hard, tight, country-made boots, above which are a
pair of baggy white cords, with the dirty finger-marks of the tailor still
upon them. He sports a single-breasted green cutaway coat, with
basket-buttons, a black satin roll-collared waistcoat, and a new white silk
hat, that shines in the bright sun like a fish-kettle. His blue-striped
kerchief is secured by a butterfly brooch. Who ever saw an innkeeper that
could resist a brooch?

He is riding a miserable rat of a badly clipped, mouse-coloured pony that
looks like a velocipede under him.

His companion, Mr. Watchorn, is very great, and hardly condescends to know
the country people who claim his acquaintance as a huntsman. He is a Hotel
Keeper--master of the Hen Angel, Newington Butts. Enoch Wriggle stands
beside them, dressed in the imposing style of a cockney sportsman. He has
been puffing 'Sir Danapalus (the Bart.)' in public, and taking all the odds
he can get against him in private. Watchorn knows that it is easier to make
a horse lose than win. The restless-looking, lynx-eyed caitiff, in the
dirty green shawl, with his hands stuffed into the front pockets of