gets
well on for the cross.

There are now five in front--Sponge, Spraggon, Hangallows, Boville, and
another; and already the pace begins to tell. It wasn't possible to run it
at the rate they started. Spraggon makes a desperate effort to get the
lead; and Sponge, seeing Boville handy, pulls his horse, and lets the
light-weight make play over a rough, heavy fallow with the chestnut. Jack
spurs and flogs, and grins and foams at the mouth. Thus they get half round
the oval course. They are now directly in front of the hill, and the
spectators gaze with intense anxiety;--now vociferating the name of this
horse, now of that; now shouting 'Red jacket!' now 'White!' while the blind
fiddler perseveres with the old melody of--'The Devil among the Tailors.'

'Now they come to the brook!' exclaims Leather, who has been over the
ground; and as he speaks, Lucy distinctly sees Mr. Sponge's gather an
effort to clear it; and--oh, horror!--the horse falls--he's down--no, he's
up!--and her lover's in his seat again; and she flatters herself it was her
sherry that saved him. Splash!--a horse and rider duck under; three get
over; two go in; now another clears it, and the rest turn tail.

What splashing and screaming, and whipping and spurring, and how hopeless
the chance of any of them to recover their lost ground. The race is now
clearly between five. Now for the wall! It's five feet high, built of heavy
blocks, and strong in the staked-out part. As he nears it, Jack sits well
back, getting Daddy Longlegs well by the head, and giving him a refresher
with the whip. It is Jack's last move! His horse comes, neck and croup
over, rolling Jack up like a ball of worsted on the far side. At the same
moment, Multum-in-Parvo goes at it full tilt; and, not rising an inch,
sends Captain Boville flying one way, his saddle another, himself a third,
and the stones all ways. Mr. Sponge then slips through, closely followed by
Hangallows and a jockey in yellow, with a tail of three after them. They
then put on all the steam they can raise over the twenty-acre pasture that
follows.

The white!--the red!--the yaller! The red!--the white!--the yaller! and
anybody's race! A sheet would cover them!--crack! whack! crack! how they
flog! Hercules springs at the sound.

Many of the excited spectators begin hallooing, and straddling, and working
their arms as if their gestures and vociferations would assist the race.
Lord Scamperdale stands transfixed. He is s