At length the horses are all out--one, two, three, four, five, six, seven,
eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen--fifteen of
them, moving about in all directions: some taking an up-gallop, others a
down; some a spicy trot, others walking to and fro; while one has still his
muzzle on, lest he should unship his rider and eat him; and another's groom
follows, imploring the mob to keep off his heels if they don't want their
heads in their hands. The noisy bell at length summons the scattered forces
to the post, and the variegated riders form into as good a line as
circumstances will allow. Just as Mr. Sponge turns his horse's head Lucy
hands him her little silver sherry-flask, which our friend drains to the
dregs. As he returns it, with a warm pressure of her soft hand, a pent-up
flood of tears burst their bounds, and suffuse her lustrous eyes. She turns
away to hide her emotion; at the same instant a wild shout rends the
air--'W-h-i-r-r! They're off!'

Thirteen get away, one turns tail, and our friend in the Lincoln green is
left performing a _pas seul_, asking the rearing horse, with an oath, if he
thinks 'he stole him'? while the mob shout and roar; and one wicked wag, in
coaching parlance, advises him to pay the difference, and get inside.

But what a display of horsemanship is exhibited by the flyers! Tongs comes
off at the first fence, the horse making straight for a pond, while the
rest rattle on in a mass. The second fence is small, but there's a ditch on
the far side, and Pusher and Gander severally measure their lengths on the
rushy pasture beyond. Still there are ten left, and nobody ever reckoned
upon these getting to the far end.

'Master wins, for a 'undr'd!' exclaims Leather, as, getting into the third
field, Mr. Sponge takes a decided lead; and Lucy, encouraged by the sound,
looks up, and sees her 'white jacket' throwing the dry fallow in the faces
of the field.

'Oh, how I hope he will!' exclaims she, clasping her hands, with upturned
eyes; but when she ventures on another look, she sees old Spraggon drawing
upon him, Hangallows's flaming red jacket not far off, and several others
nearer than she liked. Still the tail was beginning to form. Another fence,
and that a big one, draws it out. A striped jacket is down, and the horse,
after a vain effort to rise, sinks lifeless on the ground. On they go all
the same!

Loud yells of exciting betting burst from the spectators, and Buckram