Sporting Society (continued 2)

This startling and sensational explanation satisfied me. Not so my factotum, who gave vent in an undertone to such exclamations as "Naboclish! Wirra, wirra! What does he take us for? Whales, begorra!"

The riddance of the dogs was a grand coup for me. In the event of having no sport the failure could be easily accounted for, and I should come off with flying colours.

"I make it a point" observed Simpson, "to shoot as little with dogs as possible. I like to set my own game, shoot it, and bag it; nor do I care to be followed by troublesome and often impertinent self-opinionated game-keepers" (Billy was at this moment engaged in incarcerating Feltram and Birdlime). "These fellows are always spoilt, and never know their position."

I was nettled at this.

"If you refer to——"

"My dear Smithe, I allude to my friend Lord Mulligatawny's fellows, got up in Lincoln green and impossible gaiters, who insist upon loading for you, and all that sort of thing. You know Mulligatawny, of course?"

I rather apologised for not having the honour.

"Then you shall, Smithe. I'll bring you together when you come to town. Leave that to me; a nice little party: Mulligatawny, Sir Percy Whiffler, Colonel Owlfinch of the 1st Life Guards—they're at Beggar's Bush now, I suppose—Belgum, yourself, and myself."

This was very considerate and flattering; and I heartily hoped that by some fluke or other we might be enabled to make a bag.

When we arrived upon the shooting-ground, I observed that it was time to load; and calling up Billy Doyle with the guns, I proceeded to carry my precept into practice. My weapon was an old-fashioned muzzle-loader, one of Truelock & Harris's; and as I went through the process of loading, I could see that Mr Simpson was regarding my movements with a careful and critical eye.

"I know that you swells despise this sort of thing," I remarked; "but I have dropped a good many birds with this gun at pretty long ranges, and have wiped the eyes of many a breech-loading party."

"I—I like that sort of gun," said Simpson. "I'd be glad if you'd take this," presenting his, with both barrels covering me.

"Good heavens, don't do that!" I cried, shoving the muzzle aside.

"What—what—" he cried, whirling round like a teetotum—"what have I done?"

"Nothing as yet; but I hate to have the muzzle of a gun turned towards me since the day I saw poor cousin Jack's brains blown out."

"What am I to do?" exclaimed Simpson. "I'll do anything."

"It's all right," I replied; "you won't mind my old-world stupidity."

My guest's gun was a central-fire breech-loader of Rigby's newest type, which he commenced to prepare for action in what seemed to me to be a very bungling sort of way. He dropped it twice, and in releasing the barrels, brought them into very violent collision with his head, which caused the waters of anguish to roll silently down his cheeks and on to his pointed moustache. If I had not been aware of his manifold experiences in the shooting line, I could have set him down as a man who had never handled a gun in his life; but knowing his powers and prowess, I ascribed his awkwardness to simple carelessness, a carelessness in all probability due to the smallness of the game of which he was now in pursuit. I therefore refrained from taking any notice, and from making any observation until he deliberately proceeded to thrust a patent cartridge into the muzzle of the barrel of his central-fire.

"Hold hard, Mr Simpson; you are surely only jesting."

"Jesting! How do you mean?"

"Why, using that cartridge in the way you are doing."

"What other way should I use it?"

"May I again remind you that I am utterly averse to facetiousness where firearms are concerned, and——"

"My dear Smithe, I meant nothing, I assure you. I pledge you my word of honour. Here, load it yourself;" and he handed me the gun.

"There'll be a job for the coroner afore sunset," growled Billy.

"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Simpson, rather savagely.

"Mane! There's widdys and lone orphans enough in the counthry, sir—that's what I mane," and Billy started in advance with the air of a man who had to do or die.

Mr Simpson was silent for some time, during which he found himself perpetually involved in his gun, which appeared to give him the uttermost uneasiness. First, he held it at arm's length as if it was a bow; then he placed it under his arm, and held on to it with the tenacity of an octopus; after a little he shifted it again, sloping it on his shoulder, ever and anon glancing towards the barrels to ascertain their exact position. He would pause, place the butt against the ground, and survey the surrounding prospect with the scrutinising gaze of a cavalry patrol.

"Hush!" he suddenly exclaimed. "We lost something that time; I heard a bird."

"Nothin', barrin' a crow," observed Billy.

"A plover, sir; it was the cry of a plover," evasively retorted the other.

"Holy Vargin! do ye hear this? A pluvver! Divvle resave the pluvver ever was seen in the barony!"

"Silence, Doyle!" I shouted, finding that my retainer's observations were becoming personal and unpleasant.

"Troth, we'll all be silent enough by-an'-by."

We had been walking for about half an hour, when Mr Simpson suggested that it might be advisable to separate, he taking one direction, I taking the other, but both moving in parallel lines. Having joyfully assented to this proposition, as the careless manner in which he handled his gun was fraught with the direst consequences, I moved into an adjacent bog, leaving my guest to blaze away at what I considered a safe distance. I took Billy with me, both for company and for counsel, as my guest's assumed ignorance of the fundamental principles of shooting had somewhat puzzled me.

"It's a quare bisniss intirely, Masther Jim. He knows no more how to howld a gun nor you do to howld a baby, more betoken ye've two av the finest childre—God be good to them!—in Europe. I don't like for to say he's coddin' us, wud his tigers an' elephants an' combusticles, but, be me song, it luks very like it. I'd like for to see him shootin', that wud putt an ind to the question."

At this moment, bang! bang! went the two barrels of my guest's gun. Billy and I ran to the hedge, and peeping through, perceived Simpson running very fast towards a clump of furze, shouting and gesticulating violently. I jumped across the fence, and was rapidly approaching him, when he waved me back.

"Stop! don't come near me! I'm into them. There are quantities of snipe here."

"Arrah, what is he talkin' about at all at all?" panted Billy. "Snipes! Cock him up wud snipes! There ain't a snipe——"

Here Simpson, who had been groping amongst the furze, held up to our astonished gaze two brace of snipe.

Billy Doyle seemed completely dumbfounded. "That bangs anything I ever heerd tell of. Man nor boy ever seen a snipe in that field afore. Begorra, he's handy enough wud the gun, after all."

I was very much pleased to find that our excursion had borne fruit, and that my vaunted preserves were not utterly barren.

"That's a good beginning, Simpson," I cried. "Go ahead; you'll get plenty of birds by-and-by."

"I'll shoot at nothing but snipe," he replied. "Here you, Billy, come here and load for me."

"Let's look at the birds, av ye plaze, sir," said Billy, who began to entertain a feeling akin to respect for a man who could bring down his two brace at a shot. "I'll be bound they're fat an' cosy, arter the hoighth av fine feedin' on this slob."

"They're in my bag. By-and-by," replied Simpson curtly. "Now, my man, follow your master, and leave me to myself;" and my guest strode in the opposite direction.

Bang! bang!

"Be the mortial, he's at thim agin. This is shupayriour," cried my retainer, hurrying towards the place whence the report proceeded.

Simpson again held up two brace of snipe, and again plunged them into his bag; nor would he gratify the justifiable longings of our gamekeeper by as much as a peep at them.

"This is capital sport. Why, this place is swarming with snipe," cried my guest, whilst his gun was being reloaded. "Depend upon it, it's a mistake to take dogs. The birds smell them. I'll try that bit of bog now."

"Ye'll have to mind yer futtin'," observed Billy. "It's crukked an' crass enough in some spots; I'd betther be wid ye."

"Certainly not," said my guest. "I always shoot alone."

"Och, folly yer own wish, sir; only mind yer futtin'."

Mr Simpson disappeared into the hollow in which the bog was situated, and, as before, bang! bang! we heard the report of both barrels.

"Be jabers, I'm bet intirely. Thim snipes must have been dhruv from the say, an' have come here unknownst to any wan. Ay, bawl away! Whisht! be the hokey, he's into the bog!"

A dismal wailing, accompanied by cries for help, arose from out the bog, where we found poor Simpson almost up to his chin, and endeavouring to support himself by his elbows.

"Ugh! ugh! lift me out, for heaven's sake! My new clothes—this coat that I never put on before" (his whaling garment)—"why did I come to this infernal hole. Ugh! ugh!"

We dragged him up, leaving his patent boots and stockings behind him. Billy bore him on his back to the house, where he was stripped and arrayed in evening costume.

From the pockets of his ulster, which it was found necessary to turn out for drying purposes, Mr William Doyle extracted no less than six brace of snipe. Unfortunately for Mr Simpson the bill was attached to the leg of one of the birds. They had been purchased at a poulterer's in Dublin.

Mr Simpson did not remain to dine or to sleep. He pleaded a business engagement which he had completely overlooked, and left by the 4.50 train.

"Av all th' imposthors! and his tigers an' elephants no less, an' bears an' algebras! An' goin' for to cod me into believin' there was snipes growin' in a clover-field, an' thin never to gi' me a shillin'! Pah! the naygur!" and Billy Doyle's resentment recognised no limits.

It is scarcely necessary to observe that I was not invited to meet Lord Mulligatawny, Sir Percy Whiffler, and Colonel Owlfinch of Her Majesty's Guards, and that my wife holds Simpson over me whenever I hint at the probability of a visit to the metropolis.

PODGER'S POINTER

I am not a sporting man—I never possessed either a dog or a gun—I never fired a shot in my life, and the points of a canine quadruped are as unknown to me as those of the sea-serpent. The 12th of August is a mystery, and the 1st of September a sealed book. I have been regarded with well-merited contempt at the club by asking for grouse in the month of June, and for woodcock in September. I think it is just as well to mention these matters, lest it should be supposed that I desire to sail under false colours. I am acquainted with several men who shoot, and also with some who have shooting to give away. The former very frequently invite me to join their parties at the moors, turnip-fields, and woods; the latter press their shooting on me, especially when I decline on the grounds of disinclination and incapacity.

"I wish I had your chances, Brown," howls poor little Binks, who can bring down any known bird at any given distance. "You're always getting invitations because you can't shoot; and I cannot get one because I can. It's too bad, by George!—it's too bad!"

One lovely morning in the month of September I was sauntering along the shady side of Sackville Street, Dublin, when a gentleman, encased in a coat of a resounding pattern, all over pockets, and whose knickerbockers seemed especially constructed to meet the requirements of the coat, suddenly burst upon, and clutched me.

"The very man I wanted," he exclaimed. "I've been hunting you the way O'Mulligan's pup hunted the fourpenny bit through the bonfire."

"What can I do for you, Mr Podgers?" I asked.

"I want a day's shooting at O'Rooney's of Ballybawn," responded Podgers.

Now, I was not intimate with Mr O'Rooney. We had met at the club; but as he was a smoking man, and as I, after a prolonged and terrific combat with a very mild cigar (what must the strong ones be!), had bidden a long farewell to the Indian weed, it is scarcely necessary to mention that, although Mr O'Rooney and myself were very frequently beneath the same roof, we very seldom encountered one another, save in a casual sort of way.

"I assure you, Mr Podgers, that I——"

"Pshaw! that's all gammon," he burst in anticipatingly. "You can do it if you like. Sure we won't kill all the game. And I have the loveliest dog that ever stood in front of a bird. I want to get a chance of showing him off. He'll do you credit."

I was anxious to oblige Podgers. He had stood by me in a police-court case once upon a time, and proved an alibi such as must have met the approval even of the immortal Mr Weller himself; so I resolved upon soliciting the required permission, and informed Podgers that I would acquaint him with the result of my application.

"That's a decent fellow. Come back to my house with me now, and I'll give you a drop of John Jameson that will make your hair curl."

Declining to have my hair curled through the instrumentality of Mr Jameson's unrivalled whisky, I wended my way towards the club, and, as luck would have it, encountered O'Rooney lounging on the steps enjoying a cigar.

After the conventional greetings, I said, "By the way, you have some capital partridge shooting at Ballybawn."

"Oh, pretty good," was the reply, in that self-satisfied, complacent tone in which a crack billiard-player refers to the spot-stroke, or a rifleman to his score when competing for the Queen's Prize.

"I'm no shot myself—I never fired a gun in my life; but there's a particular friend of mine who is most anxious to have one day's shooting at Ballybawn. Do you think you could manage to let him have it?"

I emphasised the word "one" in the most impressive way.

"I would give one or two days, Mr Brown, with the greatest pleasure; but the fact is, I have lent my dogs to Sir Patrick O'Houlahan."

"Oh, as to that, my friend has a splendid dog—a most remarkable dog. I hear it's a treat to see him in front of a bird."

I stood manfully by Podgers' exact words, adding some slight embellishments, in order to increase O'Rooney's interest in the animal.

"In that case, there can be no difficulty, Mr Brown. I leave for Ballybawn on Saturday—will you kindly name Monday, as I would, in addition to the pleasure of receiving you and your friend, like to witness the performance of this remarkable dog; and I must be in Galway on Wednesday."

Having settled the preliminaries so satisfactorily, I wrote the following note to Podgers:—

"Dear Podgers,

"It's all right. Mr O'Rooney has named Monday. Be sure to bring the dog, as his dogs are away. Come and breakfast with me at eight o'clock, as the train starts from the King's Bridge Terminus at nine o'clock.—Yours,

"Benjamin B. Brown.

"P.S.—I praised the dog sky high. O'R. is most anxious to see him in front of the birds."

I received a gushing note in reply, stating that he would breakfast with me, and bring the dog, adding, "It's some time since he was shot over; but that makes no difference, as he is the finest dog in Leinster."

Knowing Podgers to be a very punctual sort of person, I had ordered breakfast for eight o'clock sharp, and consequently felt somewhat surprised when the timepiece chimed the quarter past.

I consulted his letter—day, date, and time were recapitulated in the most businesslike way. Some accident might have detained him. Perhaps he preferred meeting me at the station. I had arrived at this conclusion, and had just made the first incision into a round of buttered toast, when a very loud, jerky, uneven knocking thundered at the hall door, and the bell was tugged with a violence that threatened to drag the handle off.

I rushed to the window, and perceived Podgers clinging frantically to the area railings with one hand, whilst with the other he held a chain, attached to which, at the utmost attainable distance, stood, or stretched, in an attitude as if baying the moon, the fore legs planted out in front, the hind legs almost clutching the granite step, the eyes betraying an inflexible determination not to budge one inch from the spot—a bony animal, of a dingy white colour, with dark patches over the eyes, imparting a mournfully dissipated appearance—the redoubtable dog which was to afford us a treat "in front of the birds."

"Hollo, Podgers!" I cried, "you're late!"

"This cursed animal," gasped Podgers; "he got away from me in Merrion Square after a cat. The cat climbed up the Prince Consort statue. This brute, somehow or other got up after her. She was on the head, and he was too high for me to reach him, when I got the hook of this umbrella and——"

At this moment the hall-door opened, and the dog being animated with an energetic desire to explore the interior of the house, suddenly relaxed the pull upon the chain, which utterly unexpected movement sent Podgers flying into the hall as though he had been discharged from a catapult. My maid-of-all-work, an elderly lady with proclivities in the direction of "sperrits," happened to stand right in the centre of the doorway when Podgers commenced his unpremeditated bound. He cannoned against her, causing her to reel and stagger against the wall, and to clutch despairingly at the nearest available object to save herself from falling. That object happened to be the curly hair of my acrobatic friend, to which her five fingers clung as the suckers of the octopus cling to the crab. By the aid of this substantial support she had just righted herself, when the dog, finding himself comparatively free, made one desperate plunge into the hall, entwining his chain round the limbs of the lady in one dexterous whirl which levelled her, with a very heavy thud, on the body of the prostrate Podgers. Now, whether she was animated with the idea that she was in bodily danger from both master and dog, and that it behoved her to defend herself to the uttermost extent of her power, I cannot possibly determine; but she commenced a most vigorous onslaught upon both, bestowing a kick and a cuff alternately with an impartiality that spoke volumes in favour of her ideas upon the principles of even—and indeed I may add, heavy-handed justice.

I arrived upon the scene in time to raise the prostrate form of my friend, and to administer such words of consolation and sympathy as, under the circumstances, were his due. His left eye betrayed symptoms of incipient inflammation, and his mouth gave evidence of the violence with which Miss Bridget Byrne (the lady in the case) had brought her somewhat heavy knuckle-dusters into contact with it.

"Bringin' wild bastes into a gintleman's dacent house, as if it was a barn, that's manners!" she muttered. "Av I can get a clout at that dog, I'll lave him as bare as a plucked thrush!"

At this instant a violent crash of crockery-ware was heard in the regions of the kitchen.

"Holy Vargin! but the baste is on the dhresser! I'll dhress the villian!" and seizing upon a very stout ash stick which stood in the hall, she darted rapidly in the direction from whence the dire sounds were proceeding.

"Hold hard, woman!" cried Podgers. "He's a very valuable animal. I'll make good any damage. Use your authority, Brown," he added, appealing to me. "She's a terrible person this; she'd stop at nothing."

Ere I could interpose, a violent skirmishing took place, in which such exclamations as "Take that, ye divvle! Ye'll brake me chaney, will ye? There's chaney for ye!" followed by very audible whacks, which, if they had fulfilled their intended mission, would very speedily have sent the dog to the happy hunting-grounds of his race. One well-directed blow, however, made its mark, and was succeeded by a whoop of triumph from Miss Byrne and a yell of anguish from her vanquished foe.

"Gelang, ye fireside spaniel! Ye live on the neighbours. How dar' ye come in here? Ye'll sup sorrow. I'll give a couple more av I can get at ye."

Podgers rushed to the rescue, and, after a very protracted and exciting chase, during which a well-directed blow, intended by Bridget for the sole use and benefit of the dog, had alighted on the head of its master, succeeded in effecting a capture. This, too, was done under embarrassing circumstances; for the dog had sought sanctuary within the sacred precincts of Miss Byrne's sleeping apartment, beneath the very couch upon which it was the habit of that lady to repose her virgin form after the labours of the day; and her indignation knew no bounds when Podgers, utterly unmindful of the surroundings, hauled forth the dog.

"There's no dacency in man nor baste. They're all wan, sorra a lie in it!"

At this crisis Podgers must have developed his pecuniary resources, for her tone changed with marvellous rapidity, and her anger was melted into a well-feigned contrition for having used her fists so freely.

"Poor baste! shure it's frightened he is. I wudn't hurt a fly, let alone an illigant tarrier like that. Thry a bit o' beefsteak in regard o' yer eye, sir. Ye must have hot it agin somethin' hard; it will be as black as a beetle in tin minits."

Podgers uttered full-flavoured language. I looked at my watch and found that we could only "do" the train. Having hailed an outside car, the breakfastless Podgers seated himself upon one side, whilst I took the other, and after a very considerable expenditure of hard labour and skilful strategy, in which we were aided by the carman and Miss Byrne, we succeeded in forcing Albatross (the pointer) into the well in the middle. I am free to confess that I sat with my back to that animal with considerable misgivings. He looked hungry and vicious, and as though a piece of human flesh would prove as agreeable to his capacious maw as any other description of food. It was his habit, too, during our journey, to elevate his head in the air, and to give utterance to a series of the most unearthly howlings, which could only be partially interrupted, not by any means stopped, by Podgers' hat being pressed closely over the mouth, whilst Podgers punched him a tergo with no very light hand.

"That's the quarest dog I ever seen," observed the driver. "He ought to be shupayrior afther badgers. He has a dhrop in his eye like a widdy's pig, and it's as black as a Christian's afther a ruction."

"He's a very fine dog, sir," exclaimed Podgers, in a reproving tone.

"He looks as if he'd set a herrin'," said the cab-man jocosely.

"Mind your horse, sir!" said Podgers angrily.

The driver, who was a jovial-tempered fellow, finding that his advances towards "the other side" were rejected, turned towards mine.

"Are you goin' huntin' wid the dog, sir?" he asked.

"We're going to shoot," I replied, in a dignified way.

"To shoot! Thin, begorra, yez may as well get off the car an' fire away at wanst. There's an illigant haystack foreninst yez, and—but here we are"—and he jerked up at the entrance to the station.

The jerk sent Albatross flying off the car, and his chain being dexterously fastened to the back rail of the driver's seat, the luckless animal remained suspended whilst his collar was being unfastened, in order to prevent the not very remote contingency of strangulation. Finding himself at liberty, he bounded joyously away, and, resisting all wiles and blandishments on the part of his master, continued to bound, gambol, frisk, bark, and yowl in a most reckless and idiotic way. It would not be acting fairly towards Podgers were I to chronicle his language during this festive outbreak. If the dog was in a frolicsome mood, Podgers was not, and his feelings got considerably the better of him when the bell rang to announce the departure of the train within three minutes of that warning.

Finding that all hopes of securing the animal in the ordinary way were thin as air, Podgers offered a reward of half-a-crown to any of the grinning bystanders who would bring him the dog dead or alive. This stimulus to exertion sent twenty corduroyed porters and as many amateurs in full pursuit of Albatross, who ducked and dived, and twisted and twined, and eluded detention with the agility of a greased sow; and it was only when one very corpulent railway official fell upon him in a squashing way, and during a masterly struggle to emerge from beneath the overwhelming weight, that he was surrounded and led in triumph, by as many of his pursuers as could obtain a handful of his hair, up to his irate and wrathful master. Each of the captors who were in possession of Albatross claimed a half-crown, refusing to give up the animal unless it was duly ransomed; and it was during a fierce and angry discussion upon this very delicate question that the last bell rang. With one despairing tug, Podgers pulled the dog inside the door of the station, which was then promptly closed, and through the intervention of a friendly guard our bête noire was thrust into the carriage with us.

Having kicked the cause of our chagrin beneath one of the seats, I ventured to remark that in all probability the dog, instead of being a credit to us, was very likely to prove the reverse.

"It's only his liveliness, and be hanged to him," said Podgers. "He has been shut up for some time, and is as wild as a deer."

He would not admit a diminished faith in the dog; but his tone was irresolute, and he eyed the animal in a very doubting way.

"His liveliness ought to be considerably toned down after the rough handling he received from my servant, and——"

"By the way," Podgers went on, "that infernal woman isn't safe to have in the house; she'll be tried for murder some day, and the coroner will be sitting upon your body. Is my eye very black?"

"Not very," I replied. It had reached a disreputable greenish hue, tinged with a tawny red.

At Ballybricken Station we found a very smart trap awaiting us, with a servant in buckskin breeches, and in top-boots polished as brightly as the panels of the trap.

"You've a dog, sir?" said the servant.

"Yes, yes," replied Podgers, in a hurried and confused sort of way.

"In the van, sir?"

"No; he is here—under the seat. Come out, Albatross!—come out, good fellow!" And Podgers chirruped and whistled in what was meant to be a seductive and blandishing manner.

Albatross stirred not.

"Hi! hi! Here, good fellow!"

Albatross commenced to growl.

"Dear me, this is very awkward!" cried Podgers, poking at the animal in a vigorous and irritated way.

"Time's up, sir," shouted the guard, essaying to close the door.

"Hold hard, sir! I can't get my dog out!" cried Podgers.

"I'll get him out," volunteered the guard; and, seizing upon the whip which the smart driver of the smart trap held in inviting proximity, he proceeded to thrust and buffet beneath the seat where Albatross lay concealed. The dog uttered no sound, gave no sign.

"There ain't no dog there at all," panted the guard, whose exertions rendered him nearly apoplectic, proceeding to explore the recesses of the carriage—"there ain't no dog here."

A shout of terror, and the guard flung himself out of the carriage, the dog hanging on not only to his coat-tails, but to a portion of the garment which their drapery concealed. "Take off your dog—take off your dog. I'll be destroyed. Police! police! I'll have the law of you!" he yelled, in an extremity of the utmost terror.

Podgers, who was now nearly driven to his wits' end, caught Albatross by the neck, and, bestowing a series of well-directed kicks upon the devoted animal, sent him howling off the platform, but right under the train.

The cry of "The dog will be killed!" was raised by a chorus of voices both from the carriages and the platform. Happily, however, the now wary Albatross lay flat upon the ground, and the train went puffing on its way; not, however, until the guard had taken Podgers' name and address, with a view to future proceedings through the medium of the law.

"I had no idea that the O'Rooneys were such swells," observed my companion as we entered, through the massive and gilded gates, to the avenue which sweeps up to Ballybawn House. "Somehow or other, I wish I hadn't fetched Albatross, or that you hadn't spoken about him;" and Podgers threw a gloomy glance in the direction of the pointer, who lay at our feet in the bottom of the trap, looking as if he had been on the rampage for the previous month, or had just emerged from the asylum for the destitute of his species.

"He won't do us much credit as regards his appearance," I said; "but if he is all that you say as a sporting dog—of which I have my doubts—it will make amends for anything."

Podgers muttered something unintelligible, and I saw dismal forebodings written in every line of his countenance.

Mr O'Rooney received us at the hall-door. Beside him crouched two magnificent setters, with coats as glossy as mirrors, and a bearing as aristocratic as that of Bethgellart.

"Where's the dog?" asked our host, after a warm greeting. "I hope that you have brought him."

I must confess that I would have paid a considerable sum of money to have been enabled to reply in the negative. I muttered that we had indeed fetched him, but that owing to his having met with some accidents en voyage, his personal appearance was considerably diminished; but that we were not to judge books by their covers.

As if to worry, vex, and mortify us, Albatross declined to stir from the bottom of the trap, from whence he was subsequently rooted out in a most undignified and anti-sporting way.

The expression upon Mr O'Rooney's face, when at length the animal, badger-like, was drawn, was that of an intense astonishment, combined with a mirth convulsively compressed. The servants commenced to titter, and the smart little gentleman who tooled us over actually laughed outright.

Albatross was partly covered with mud and offal. His eyes were watery, and the lids were of a dull pink, imparting a sort of maudlin idiotcy to their expression. His right ear stood up defiantly, whilst his left lay flat upon his jowl, and his tail seemed to have disappeared altogether, so tightly had he, under the combined influence of fear and dejection, secured it between his legs.

"He's not very handsome," observed our host laughingly, "but I dare say he will take the shine out of York and Lancaster, by-and-by," pointing to the two setters as he spoke.

This hint was enough for Albatross, as no sooner had the words escaped the lips of O'Rooney than, with a yowl which sent the rooks whirling from their nests, he darted from the trap, and, making a charge at York, sent that aristocratic animal flying up the avenue in a paroxysm of terror and despair; whilst Lancaster, paralysed by the suddenness of the onslaught, allowed himself to be seized by the neck, and worried, as a cat worries a mouse, without as much as moving a muscle in self-defence.

This was too much. I had borne with this hideous animal too long. My patience was utterly exhausted, and all the bad temper in my composition began to boil up. I had placed myself under an obligation to a comparative stranger for the purpose of beholding his magnificent and valuable dogs scared and worried by a worthless cur. Seizing upon a garden-rake that lay against the wall, I dealt at Albatross what ought to have proved a crushing blow, which he artfully eluded. It only grazed him, and fell, with almost its full swing and strength, upon the passive setter, who set up a series of unearthly shrieks, almost human in their painful shrillness.

"Chain up that dog at once!" shouted O'Rooney in fierce and angry tones, "and look to Lancaster. I fear that his ribs are broken. This is very unfortunate," he added, addressing himself to me.

"I don't know what's come over the animal!" exclaimed Podgers. "I wish to heaven I had never seen him. I'll part with him to-morrow, if I have to give him to the Zoological Gardens for the bears."

Luckily, it turned out, upon examination, that Lancaster was not in any way seriously injured. This put us into somewhat better spirits, so that by the time breakfast was concluded we were on good terms with each other, and even with the wretched Albatross, in whom we still maintained a sort of sickly confidence. Later on we started for the turnips, Mr O'Rooney and Podgers in front—the latter hauling Albatross along as if he was a sack of wheat; whilst I brought up the rear with a gamekeeper and York.

"I don't think that animal is used to be out at all, at all," observed the keeper.

"I'm afraid you are quite right," I replied; "but I hear that he is a very good sporting dog."

"Sportin'! Begorra, he'll give yez sport enough before the day is half over," said the keeper, with a gloomy grin.

"There is always a covey to be found in this field," observed our host to Podgers, "so we'll give your dog the first chance."

"I—I—I'd rather you'd let him see what your dog will do," blurted Podgers.

"Oh, dear no!" returned Mr O'Rooney. "Let him go now. You'll take the first shot."

Very reluctantly indeed did Podgers unloose his pointer, uttering into the dog's ear in a low tone the most terrific and appalling threats should he fail to prove himself all that my fancy had painted him. With a loud bark of defiance Albatross darted away, scurrying through the turnips at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, utterly unmindful of whistle, call, blandishment, or threat, appearing now in one direction, now in another, and barking as though it had been part of its training.

"Stop that dog," cried our host, "he won't leave us a bird," as covey after covey of partridges rose beyond range and flew away, Albatross joyously barking after them.

"You said I was to have the first shot, Mr O'Rooney," said Podgers, in a tone full of solemnity.

"Certainly, if you can get it; which I doubt," was the curt reply.

Albatross had dashed within twenty yards of us, and was plunging off in another direction, when Podgers ran forward, raised his gun. Bang!

Albatross was sent to the happy hunting-grounds of his race.

"He frightened the partridge," observed Podgers, proceeding to reload; "let him frighten the crows now."

THE DEAD HEAT

No, never had there been such a state of excitement in any ball-room before, when it became known that Captain O'Rooney had entrapped Lieutenant Charles Fortescue, of the Stiffshire Regiment, into a thousand guineas match P.P., owners up, twelve stone each, and four miles over the stiffest country in Galway.

The match had been made at the supper-table, after the ladies had left; but nevertheless, the news had been carried to them, and they were furious.

"Fancy," said one, a tall, handsome brunette, "that that little wretched bandy-legged O'Rooney should have got round our handsome friend in such a mean way. He is jealous and disgusted with Fortescue's waltzing, and he is the best waltzer in Ireland."

"I'll make him a set of colours to ride in," returned the toast of five counties, the beautiful Alice Gwynne. "I never made any before, but 'there's luck in odd numbers, says Rory O'More,' and so he is sure to win in them."

"Too bad," exclaimed the gray-haired Colonel of Fortescue's regiment to some gentlemen standing by him at the supper-table, "to have hounded the lad into it. O'Rooney is a noted steeplechase rider, and my boy" (he always called the youngsters of his regiment his boys), "though a workman across country, never rode a race in his life; but I hear that Captain O'Rooney has the character of looking up the Griffs."

"Faith, Colonel, ye are about right there," said a jolly-looking young Irishman; "he is just the boy that can do that same; he is mad now because Fortescue's English horse cut him down to-day, and pounded him—a thing that has never been done before."

"Bedad, you're out there, Mat," put in another; "I'd be after thinking it is because the Leaftenent has been making mighty strong running entirely with Alice Gwynne all this blessed night. O'Rooney, by my faith, does not like that, devil a hap'orth; he considers himself the favoured one—the consated spalpeen."

"He the favoured one!" remarked big H——, of Fortescue's regiment; "why, he cannot suppose he would have a ghost of a chance with that pug nose and whisky-toddy countenance of his against Fortescue of ours. Why, Old Nick himself could not boast of an uglier face than Pat Rooney. Fortescue is about the handsomest and nicest fellow in the service, and though only a poor man, yet there are devilish few girls, at least of any taste, who would give him the 'cold shoulder.'"

The conversation was put an end to by the redoubtable Captain O'Rooney they were descanting on, and with whom all seemed to be on such bad terms, walking towards them.

"I will make one endeavour now," said the Colonel, "to put a stop to this match."

"Captain O'Rooney," said he, as that gentleman joined them, "I am sorry to hear of this proposed steeplechase, and for such a sum. Mr Fortescue is a young man, and has acted very foolishly; moreover, though he holds the post of adjutant, he has little, I know, but his pay, and such a loss as a thousand pounds would seriously inconvenience him. Let me recommend, Captain O'Rooney, that Fortescue give you a hundred pounds to-morrow morning and draw the bet. What say you, gentlemen all, is the proposal fair?"

"Nothing fairer," they exclaimed.

"See now, Colonel," said Captain O'Rooney, "let us hear what Mr Fortescue says: he is not here; he'll be found in the ball-room, I'm after thinking."

"True for ye, Captain dear," said the jolly-looking young Irishman before alluded to. "Divil a bit," he continued, with a sly and malicious twinkle of his blue eye, "is Fortescue in the ball. Be jabers, he is seated in the card-room alone by Alice Gwynne, playing with her bouquet and fan. I'll go and fetch him; but it's a pity to disturb him. I'd almost take my oath he has been asking her to be Mrs Fortescue, and by my soul I don't think she has said no." So saying, the young man, without giving the other time to answer, vanished from the room.

"What is it, Colonel?" said Fortescue, coming in almost immediately after.

"See now," said O'Rooney, interrupting him; "the Colonel says this is a foolish match we have entered into, and proposes that ye should pay me a hundred down to-morrow to let ye off. What d'ye say?"

"What do I say?" replied the young man; "why, I'll do anything the Colonel likes. I think it is a foolish match. I was excited and out of humour when I made it. I'm better now, and if you like to take a hundred and draw, why I'll send you a cheque to-morrow morning for the amount, or run you for a hundred, which you like."

"See, now," said the Captain, his naturally red face getting purple with anger and excitement. "I've heard ye both—the Colonel and yourself; now both of ye hear me. If ye were to offer me nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds, d—n me if I'd take it, for by the Rock of Cashel, I'll lick ye and break your heart and neck over the country; and see now, Fortescue," he continued, "steer clear of the heiress."

"What do you mean, sir," retorted the young man, firing up. "Steer clear of the heiress? you forget yourself; do you presume to put a lady in the question?" and saying this, he turned away.

"All devilish fine," said O'Rooney, sticking his hands in his pockets and sauntering away from the supper-table, humming a verse of Harry Lorrequer's well-known song:—

"Won't he?" muttered Fortescue to himself, as he caught the last words, "perhaps I'll show you he will." If the Captain had not been so blind with passion, he might have heard the gallant Adjutant singing sotto voce a verse of a song from the same author, as he strode carelessly from the room:—

What did he mean?

"By the great gun of Athlone, I'm mighty glad entirely they're both gone from the room," said a hard-riding Galway squire, as the illustrious Captain O'Rooney disappeared from sight. "I thought there was an illigant row brewing. Better as it is. Where O'Rooney is to get the coin from if he loses, divil a one of me knows. He's in 'Quare Street' long ago. Never mind, boys; let us have the groceries. 'O Punch! you are my darling,' and the devil fly away with dull care. Now Colonel," he continued, "upon my conscience, as O'Rooney won't listen to reason, you must look after Fortescue's interests. O'Rooney will endeavour to pick out a country. I mean he will go building up walls, and so on. You must have your own way a little, or, begorra, he'll do as he likes entirely. Now, there is one thing that will beat him if anything will—you must insist on that, or I would not give a trauneen for Fortescue's chance—and that is" (he dropped his voice to a whisper) one if not two WATER-jumps; if anything will stop Mad Moll it is WATER."

"It shall be done," said the Colonel; "I'll see that the lad is not taken advantage of." And the old field-officer kept his word, as will be seen in the sequel.

O'Rooney was greatly disturbed when he knew there were to be one or more water-jumps. He fought hard and gallantly against it; but the Colonel was obdurate. "By Gad, sir," said he, "you do not want it entirely your own way, do you? I have not interfered with the country in any way. I have said nothing as to the six-foot wall you have built up, and others equally dangerous, and now you cavil at a paltry ditch."

"Ditch do ye call it, Colonel? fifteen feet of water, hurdled and staked, a ditch, and another of eleven. By my troth, no such like ditches are found between this and Ballinasloe. But never mind. Glory be to Moses, I'll get over them. And then, h—ll to my soul, if the English horse will ever come near Mad Moll's girths again."

"We think nothing of nineteen feet, sir," said the Colonel. "In England, fifteen feet is nothing; but my youngster shall have a chance."

Great was the excitement throughout the country—indeed, in all parts of Ireland. Such a match had not been known for years—"a thousand pounds!" What could the English soldier have been thinking of! The nags went on well in their training, closely guarded by their respective admirers. The English horse took to wall-jumping beautifully; but it was doubted whether, even with his great turn of speed, he had the foot of the Irish mare—a clipper. Then again, though Fortescue was a cool and daring horseman, he had not the experience of the Captain, who had ridden many a hard-contested race before, across country and over the flat.

The stakes had been made good and deposited according to agreement with the Colonel. The Captain had found friends to share in the bet, for though he was generally disliked, yet they had confidence in his horse and his horsemanship. Fortescue, too, had friends, nor had his commanding officer been idle. Men from his own regiment had come forward, so all he stood to lose was two hundred and fifty; this and other matters made him sanguine and light-hearted. In addition to all, he had received a beautiful cap and jacket from Miss Gwynne.

The sporting papers, English and Irish, teemed with the forthcoming match. "Lieut. Charles Fortescue's bay horse Screwdriver, aged, against Capt. O'Rooney's chestnut mare Mad Moll, six years old, for ONE THOUSAND guineas a side," appeared in the County Chronicle.

The excitement was intense. Such a stiff bit of country had not been seen or ridden over for years. The betting would have been decidedly in favour of the Captain, but his mare's well-known dislike to water prevented anything like odds being laid—so they were both about equal favourites.

"By George, old fellow!" said one of Fortescue's chums to him one morning, some six days previous to the race, "I really think your chance is becoming more rosy every hour. The more O'Rooney's mare sees the water the less she likes it. A sergeant in my company, a Galway man, has a country cousin in the barracks who knows all about it. Just go to Sergeant Blake," he said, turning to a bugler passing by, "and tell him to come here, and bring his cousin with him. Mr Fortescue wishes to see him."

The man soon appeared. "Salute your supareor," said the Sergeant, as he squared his heels. "Touch your caubeen."

"Arrah, now, Patrick, wasn't I after doing it?"

"Well, do it at onst, ye murdering ruffian, and tell all ye know."

"Yes, sir, yer honour," commenced the man, "Faix, the Captain 'av' been trying the mare day after day at the water. Onst she jumped finely. The Captain made a brook close by our cabin, and is often wid her there. Sometimes she jumps and sometimes she won't; and when she won't, mille murther! maybe don't he larrup her! Long life to your honour! but I don't think the mare likes water, at all, at all. And by my troth, there's many a man thinks the same. The devil's luck to him! he's been all over the fresh-planted praties, and cut them to smithereens, bad cess to him! But av course, Leiftenent, ye won't tell on a poor boy, more by token as he is after doing yer honour a little sarvice. I wouldn't give a handful of prayers for my life if he found me out; for sorra a one knows the Captain better than myself, death to his sowl! Tear-an-ages! he's a terrible bad man entirely, is the Captain. The top of the morning, and long life to your honour!" said the gossoon, as the Sergeant led him away, pocketing half a crown.

"There, Fortescue, what do you think of that?" said his friend, as they sauntered away to the anteroom for a whiskey and soda. "It's evident Mad Moll is no water jumper. By Jupiter! I think you will pull through. Quite fair my giving the lad half-a-crown. O'Rooney's friends have been doing the same—fair play is a jewel!"

Somehow the public at last began to lean towards the English horse. He did his work quietly and openly, without any attempt at concealment.

But what is this excitement in the barrack yard? Officers are rushing to the mess-room. Two gentlemen have been driven up there in a car. Lord Plunger and his friend Bradon have arrived. They are old friends of the Stiffshire battalion.

"By George! Plunger and Bradon, I'm delighted to see you," said the warm-hearted Colonel, hastening in, while endeavouring to make his sword-belt meet about his somewhat bulky waist. "I did not tell the boys I had written for you both. Lunch ready in ten minutes—glass of sherry first to wet your mouths. Now, Fortescue will have a little good advice. You will ride the last gallop to-morrow morning, Bradon, and give us your opinion. Dammee, I'm so glad to see you both in the wild west. Here, some one tell the captain of the day I won't have another roll-call. Obliged to do this kind of thing here, Bradon—never know what's going to happen from one minute to another. Shooting landlords like the devil. Potted Lambert last week; five shots in him, and the only one that did no harm was the one that took him in the forehead. Rest his sowl, as the Irishmen say, a near escape for him. Lucky dog! Here is the sherry!" In this way did the popular Colonel rattle on.

The gallop is over, and Screwdriver has been tried at even weights against a good one. George Bradon had thought it better that Fortescue should ride his own horse in the trial, which he did. "By Jove, you've got a clipper, Fortescue!" said the former, as they pulled up; "you don't know how good. I deceived you all when I told you I had borrowed this nag to try you. Keep your mouth shut, hermetically sealed, old fellow, and I'll tell you something you will care to know. It is no commoner you have galloped against to-day. Mind, on your life, not a word to your dearest friend. It's my own horse, Guardsman, you have had a spin with—the winner of the Cheltenham Grand Annual!"

The young man thus addressed sat like one in a dream, at this revelation.

"It's all old Mason's doing, Fortescue," said he. "He advised me to bring him over. I'm off now. Look at that knot of people coming over the hill; there are some who crossed the Channel yesterday with me who would know my old pet, and I would not have it blown upon for a trifle—the horse has been in Ireland for a week on the quiet. I'm now off, across country to Athenry, where Mason is, and has a stable for him. The horse will leave by the late train to-night for England with a lad; so no one will be a bit the wiser. My old stud-groom will come to your diggings this evening with me to give you a help. So au revoir till mess-time, when you will see yours truly;" and putting his horse at a five-foot wall, he sent him over, hurling the loose stones behind him in a cloud, and was quickly out of sight.

"So your friend has gone," said the gallant Colonel, as Fortescue walked his horse up to a host of his brother-officers and friends assembled in a knot on the hill, amongst which several strangers were distinguishable.

"Yes," replied Fortescue, carelessly, "he will be with us at mess. Here, take the horse home, Forester"—to his man—"see no one comes near him."

"That's a horse to back," said a sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat; and coming up to Fortescue he whispered quietly to him: "I'm on your nag for a plumper. I keep my own counsel, and shall not split. I never come except with a rush at the last minute. My glasses are good. You've had a spin with one of the best cross-country horses in England. Clever and fast as that nag is, he can't give you seven pounds. You ran him to a length or two. I know George Bradon and Guardsman well. I've won a pot full of money on them before. There, don't look scared; you are a youngster. Sit well down on Screwdriver, hold him together, don't give a lead over the water, and you will land him a winner. I know more than you think; but for my own sake I'm MUM!"

"News for you all!" said the Colonel of Fortescue's regiment, bursting into the mess-room, where some nine or ten officers were at breakfast, amongst whom were Lord Plunger and Bradon. "Here, Fortescue," continued the excited old gentleman, "this letter"—holding out one—"concerns you more immediately. Read it out."

The young man thus addressed took the letter and read the following:—

"Dear Colonel,

"As you all know, this is the morning of the race. Something has happened. For God's sake ride over and see me at once.—

"Yours faithfully,

"P. O'Rooney.

"Clough-bally-More Castle, Friday morning."

"There, gentlemen, what do you think of that?" cried the Colonel, as Fortescue slowly folded up the letter and returned it to him. "Something in that—no race for a guinea."

"Race or no race," said Lord Plunger, "the money is lodged with you. It is a p.p. bet, and must be paid."

"Mare gone amiss," put in Bradon. "I knew he was giving her too much of it. This is a hard, stony country; horses won't stand much continued work. Poor brutes! they are galloped shin sore—all the life and energy taken out of them—sweated to death, and made as thin as whipping-posts, and they are said to be in condition. Serves him right."

"Hold, Bradon, my boy," interrupted Lord Plunger, "you do not know that such is the case. The mare was all right last night, that I am certain of. She is about six miles from here, at a Mr Blake's. I am inclined to think O'Rooney has got into trouble."

"At any rate we shall soon know," returned the Colonel; "for here is my horse coming round. I shall be back in an hour or a little more. I'll look after your interests, Fortescue," he continued. "It is only half-past ten now. The race is not till three. Keep cool, and don't take too many brandy-and-sodas, till you see me again." And so saying, he took his departure.

What was up? Had the mare broken down? Was O'Rooney arrested? It must be one or the other. It could not be about the stakes, for these were lodged to the Colonel's credit in the Bank of Ireland. What could it be then?

"I cannot help thinking, Fortescue," said Lord Plunger, "that somehow or other you will have to don the new colours, doeskins, and tops, and give us a sight of your way of crossing the Galway country." As he was speaking, one of the mess waiters came in and said a few words to Fortescue, which made that gentleman immediately leave the room. On reaching his quarters he found seated there a sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat.

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger to the officer as he entered. "You know me, I think?"

Fortescue slightly inclined his head.

"The object of my coming," continued the sly-looking little man, "is to tell you that there is a writ out against Captain O'Rooney for four hundred pounds. He will not show up to-day. He is a Sunday man: now the race is ours—yours I ought to say—you will only have to go over the course. Good-morning."

But he was not allowed to depart in that way. He was soon in the mess-room, and all were put in possession of the facts.

In the meantime the good Colonel rode on at a rapid pace, wondering at the contents of the note, and conjuring up all sorts of things. Five-and-twenty minutes brought him to the gate, or what should have been the gate, of Clough-bally-More Castle, but it was gone. Cantering up the neglected wilderness-like avenue, he was soon in front of a ruinous-looking pile. This was Clough-bally-More Castle—a place best described by a quotation from Hood's beautiful poem of "The Haunted House"—

Getting off his horse and walking up the broken, moss-covered steps, the Colonel rang the bell, which gave forth a melancholy sound that scared a colony of jackdaws who had established themselves unmolested for many a year in the chimneys and uninhabited rooms.

On the second summons a shock head was cautiously poked out of an upper window. "Sure now, it's no use at all, at all, av yer ringing away like that: the master's gone abroad these six months; he told me to say so last night. Divil a writ can you serve him wid, my honey; av ye don't be off the master will be after shooting ye for a thafe from the hall windy."

"I'm no writ server," returned the Colonel. "I come in consequence of a note I received from Captain O'Rooney this morning."

"Troth, then, ye are the English soldier colonel. His honour the master will be wid ye at onst," and the head disappeared.

Presently that of the Captain protruded.

"See now, Colonel," said he, "ould Mat thought you were a Bum. I'm sorry to say I'm a Sunday man now. The thundering thieves they've been about the place all the morning to serve me. I wish they may get it. Nabocklish! catch a weasel asleep. I'll let you in."

In a minute or so the front door was slowly and cautiously unchained, and the Colonel found himself in the hall of Clough-bally-More Castle. It was a perfect ruin, and, if possible, more ghastly and miserable-looking on the inside than the outside. The Captain's room was, however, pretty cosy, and in decent repair. A bright turf fire burnt on the hearth; a couple of guns adorned the walls; rods, fishing-tackle, and various other sporting paraphernalia were scattered about the room in indescribable confusion.

"Be seated, Colonel," said the steeple-chase rider; "I may as well come to the point at once. D——, of Galway, has a writ out against my person for four hundred pounds. They tried to serve it on me last night, and again this morning, the divil fly away with them! May the flames of——"

"What is to be done, Capt. O'Rooney?" interrupted the Colonel. "You know it is a p.p. bet, and out of my power to do anything. Mr Fortescue has only two hundred and fifty on it. The rest is made up by gentlemen who will insist on the terms of the bet being adhered to. You ridiculed our offer of scratching the bet for a hundred: far better for yourself had you done so. I should not like any advantage taken of you, and you ought to have a run for your money. What is it you propose?"

"See, now, Colonel; the only way is, that if you do not hold me to the day, we can run it off on Sunday."

"Sir! Captain O'Rooney!" hotly interrupted the Colonel; "you must be mad! Ride a steeple-chase on a Sunday! Do you suppose, sir, any of my officers would be guilty of such a thing, or that I would allow it?"

"See, now, Colonel," interposed the Captain, "then there is no other way but Mr Fortescue letting me off altogether. I've five hundred on it on my own account. I'll give a hundred and scratch it."

"Quite impossible," said the Colonel; "you know I can't do it. I am really very sorry for you, but stay, there is yet one way, and if I can manage it the race may yet come off. D——, who has the writ out against you, does the wine for the mess. Now, will you agree to this—that if you win, I pay him the four hundred and the balance to yourself? If you do not win you shall be exactly in the same position you are now, namely, locked up in your own house."

"Tare an' ages, a capital idea! Colonel, I agree." And it was forthwith signed and sealed between them.

"I'll send out to you in an hour," said the Colonel, as he took his departure. "I will write and tell you how it is to be, race or no race. Depend on me; I'll do all I can."

The Colonel succeeded, and the terms he mentioned were acceded to by D——, who thought it was his only chance of ever getting a farthing.

"Hang it, gentlemen," said the light-hearted old officer, "we could have got the money without a race; but I should not have liked it said of the regiment that we took any advantage. Now, win or lose, everyone must say that we have behaved pluckily in this matter."

Such a crowd as there was on the road all the way to the hill of Thonabuckey, where a good view could be had of the race! Cars, donkey-carts, wiry-looking horses with wiry and sporting squireens on them crowded the road—all on their way to see the thousand-guinea steeple-chase between the English soldier gentleman and the famous Captain O'Rooney.

Such excitement, such running and jostling of the dirty unwashed to get along! There was the old blind fiddler, Mat Doolan, in a donkey-cart, and perched on the top of a porter-barrel, scraping away, and occasionally giving a song.

"Sure it's himself that can bring the music out of the instrument. He is the best fiddler in the west," sang out one. Then a chorus of voices would break in asking for various tunes and songs. "Arrah, now, give us 'Croppies lie down.'" "'Wreath the bowl,'" cried another. "Hell to the bowl, let's 'ave 'Tater, Jack Walsh,' or 'Vinegar Hill,'" demanded a sturdy ruffian. "No, no; 'The breeze that blows the barley,' 'St Patrick's day in the morning,' or 'Garry-owen' for me." "Begorra, no; 'Larry before he was stretched,' is my favourite," said a ragged urchin.

"Hurrah! here comes the Captain," bawled another; and the dirty unwashed yelled as he passed in a tax-cart driven by a friend.

"Which is the Captain?" demanded a soldier.

"Death! don't you know him? Musha, why that one forenent ye in the white caubeen and frieze coat. Troth, he's a broth of a boy! devil a one in Ireland can bate him on Mad Moll across country. Sure he's an illigant rider."

"Hould yer noise, here comes Squire Gwynne and the ladies in the coach, and the English soldier gentleman wid 'em. Agra! but he's a mighty fine young man is that same. Bedad, it's Miss Alice that's looking swate on him entirely."

It was true: there was Charles Fortescue of the Stiffshire Regiment going to the scene of action in the Squire's waggonette, and sitting beside his affianced bride, the beautiful Alice Gwynne with eight thousand a year the instant she married.

"Hurroo!" shouted the people as the carriage dashed past. "Three cheers for the Master of Gwynne! And another for the lady!" They were in the humour to shout at everything and everybody.

The course is reached at last. It is a circular one, and everything has to be jumped twice; hardly anything is to be seen but dark frowning walls. Many cars and carriages have got down by the water-jump. There is no end of youth and beauty. All the county élite are there as lookers-on. A place has been kept for Mr Gwynne, and also one for the large waggonette of the officers. Eager spectators are scattered all over the course, but the big wall and the two water-jumps are the centre of attraction. The wall is a fearful one, six feet high, built up of large loose stones. The water-jump is also a pretty good one. A little mountain stream has been dammed up. It is fifteen feet wide, four feet deep, and hurdled and staked on the taking off side.

"By Jingo, it is a twister!" said Mr Gwynne, a hunting man, as he looked at it. "I say, Ally," to his daughter, "you would not like to ride over that, would you?"

"No, indeed, papa," said the poor girl, with her beautiful eyes full of tears—she was terribly agitated. "I never shall be able to look at Charles as he jumps it: it's fearful to look at, and it has to be done twice too!"

"Never mind, Alice, dear," said Fortescue, "the old horse will carry me over like a bird. The only difficulty in the whole thing is the big wall; that is a rattler! but in your colours, of course, I shall get over all right. Let me do that wall and I am pretty safe, for I know Screwdriver has the foot of Mad Moll; and these colours, too, they must not play second fiddle. Cheer up!" and he whispered something that made the fair girl smile through her tears.

"Now, Fortescue," said George Bradon, taking his friend aside, "let me give you a little advice: this is your maiden effort: whatever you do be cool; don't flurry or worry yourself; you have a knowing fellow to ride against, who is well up to these things. Now the wall is the principal thing, and my opinion is, he will try and baulk your horse there; therefore, my boy, don't let him give you a lead over it, but lead him. That you have the speed of the mare there is not a doubt. Remember, too, you must not go at the wall too fast: keep him well together, with his hind legs well under him, and pop him over. Now, with regard to the brook, on no account give him a lead there; if necessary, walk your horse to it rather than go first. Keep your head, old fellow, and where you dare, make the pace a cracker, if you can do it without pumping your horse; the mare is overtrained, and will not last if she is bustled. I don't know that I can say any more: now, go and sit by your lady fair till it is time to weigh."

The officers had sent their two cricket tents down, the scoring one for the scales, and the other for luncheon. The latter one was filled with gentlemen discussing the merits of the different horses.

"Here comes your nag, Fortescue," said a young sub, running up to the carriage.

"Oh, what a beauty he is!" said Miss Gwynne. "Who is the little fat man leading him?"

"That," said Bradon, who had joined them, "is my old stud-groom, one of the best men in Europe; he says Screwdriver's trained to the hour. Here, Mason, turn the horse round and show him to the lady."

The old man touched his hat as he did so.

"He's a good 'un, miss," he said, "and nothing but a good 'un; and if Mr Fortescue rides him patiently, I think that no Mad Moll will have a chance with him." And touching his hat again he turned and walked the horse away.

The regimental champion was then immediately surrounded by the men of the Stiffshire Regiment.

The weighing is over, and Screwdriver mounted. Fortescue's colours are crimson, with gold braiding. Capt. O'Rooney's are all green. Both gentlemen look thorough jocks, and sit their horses easily and well; but there is a look of the older hand about the Captain.

"Who will lay me two to one against Screwdriver?" cried out a sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat. "I'll do it to any amount up to a thousand."

"I'll take you even money for a hundred," said a flashily-dressed man on a bay horse.

"I want odds, sir," said the little man; "but as I see there is no betting to be done here, make it two hundred and I'll take you."

"Done," said the other. And the bets were booked.

All is now excitement, for the horses are walking away to the starting-post. The judge had locked himself up in the little box allotted to him, which has been lent by the race committee, but little did he think he would see such a close finish.

"They're off!" is the cry, as the two horses are seen cantering across a field.

"Fortescue's leading," said Lord Plunger, with his field-glasses to his eyes.

"Oh, papa, hold me up so that I may see," said the beautiful and anxious Miss Gwynne.

The eyes of scores were on her as she stood up, for all the gentry were well aware in what relation she stood to Fortescue.

"Well lepped!" roared the multitude, as the horses topped a wall.

"Capital jumpers both," said the sly-looking little man; "the horse for my money. Will nobody bet?" he roared out. But all were too eager to attend to him.

Fortescue is in front, and going at a good rate across some grass. The first brook is now approached, and the Captain in his turn, leads at a strong pace. All are anxiously looking to see how Mad Moll will like it, for she is twisting her head from side to side. Fortescue has taken a pull at Screwdriver, who is some six lengths behind.

"Hang me if she means jumping!" said Bradon, as he saw the mare's spiral movements.

But he was wrong: a resolute man and a good one was on her back. She jumped the brook, but in bad style, her hind legs dropped in, and as she just righted herself, Fortescue's crimson jacket flashed in the air and cleared it splendidly, amidst the shouts of hundreds.

"Splendidly jumped!" said Lord Plunger. "Fortescue is a fine horseman, Bradon, and is riding the horse patiently and well."

"He is," was the quiet reply.

All eyes are now directed to the wall, which the horses are rapidly approaching. Fortescue is seen to lead at it, and the old horse clears it at a bound, as did the mare.

"It's all up," said Bradon, as he closes his glasses; "Fortescue will win in a canter."

"The Captain's down!" screamed a host of voices, as he and the mare came to grief at the second water-jump.

"May he stick there for the next ten minutes!" muttered the sly little man, a wish in which not a few joined—a certain fair lady especially.

But he is up and at work again, none the worse. The horses were going at a great pace, and the jumps were taken with beautiful precision by both. Bradon began to look anxious, the sly little man fidgety, and Lord Plunger wore a thoughtful look.

The anxious girl's face was flushed to scarlet with excitement and emotion, and she trembled fearfully.

"It will be a close thing," said the sly-looking little man; "the mare is better than I thought."

There were only a few things to be jumped now of any consequence—the two brooks and the big wall. The horses there turned, ran through an opening made in the wall, and finished on the flat in front of the carriages. The brook is now approached for the second time: the mare comes at it first, jumps it, and topples down on her nose on the opposite side; the Captain is pitched forward on her ears, but recovers himself like lightning, and is away again, leading Fortescue at a terrific pace.

But what is the little sly man doing? As the mare recovers herself he is seen to dart across the course and pick up something flat, and put it into his pocket. "By G—d! turn out as it will we are saved," he muttered. "I'll lay any money against the mare," he screamed out. But no one took him.

The wall is now approached again; the Captain leads; but as the mare is about to rise he turns her sharply round and gallops in a different direction. Screwdriver refuses it too.

"Damnation! I thought it," said Bradon; "there's a blackguard's trick!"

"Oh! poor Charles," ejaculated the beautiful Alice; "my poor colours!"

"The Captain's cleared it!" shouted out the multitude, as the mare was seen to take the wall splendidly.

"Where's your soldier now?" shouted out a chorus of voices.

"Shure it's myself," said the captain, "could never be licked."

"Most unfortunate!" said the old Colonel, "a dirty trick; and after my kindness to him, too!"

"The soldier is going at it again!" cried the people; and the horse is seen to rise gallantly at it, but both horse and rider came down on the other side.

"Och, wirra wirra, vo vo! Mother of Moses, he's kilt entirely!" bawled out a countryman; "poor young fellow!"

"Miss Gwynne's fainted," said a young sub, running into the tent for water.

"By G—d! he's up and at it again," screamed out the sly little man: "the mare's baked too; look at her tail."

All faces were flushed and eager. The horse was coming along at a tremendous pace. The captain was at work: his legs could be seen sending the spurs deeply into her; and he took an anxious look over his shoulder every now and then.

"The mare's beaten!" resounded on all sides, as she was seen to swerve in her stride.

"Oh that the finish were only a hundred yards farther!" said Lord Plunger.

The winning-post is approached. The old horse has not been touched by Fortescue, whose face is seen, even at that distance, to be deluged with blood. He holds Screwdriver well in hand; he sees the mare is flagging.

"Green wins!" "Red wins!" shouts the crowd.

It is an anxious moment. Both horses are seen locked closely together. But the strain on Screwdriver's jaw is relaxed, and Fortescue is seen to shake him up; the whip hand is at work, and they pass the post abreast. The Colonel dashes off, as does the sly little man, and a host of others.

"What is it?" said the Colonel, as he galloped up.

"A dead heat," replied the judge.

The sly little man smiles grimly as he hears these words.

"Is Charles hurt, papa?" said the beautiful occupant of the Master of Gwynne's carriage, opening her eyes languidly, as she rose from her faint.

"No, dearest; cut a little, I believe. It is a dead heat."

Both horses were now returning to scale.

"Dead heat?" said the Captain. "Well, we must run it off in an hour. I won't give in."

"Hurt, sir?" inquired old Mason, as he took hold of the old horse's bridle and led him back.

"A bit of a cut on the forehead," returned Fortescue, "that is all. Captain O'Rooney pulled his mare round at the wall—little cad!"

"A scoundrel's trick," said the Colonel.

Fortescue goes to weigh in first.

"All right, sir," said the man in charge of the scales.

The Captain now approaches, saddle and saddle-cloths in hand, and seats himself.

"Eleven stone eleven," said he of the scales, looking at them intently. "Three pounds short, Captain."

"What?" yelled out O'Rooney. "Look again, man, look again!"

"Eleven stone eleven," replied the clerk.

"Give me my bridle!" roared the Captain. "What the h—ll is the matter?"

"Ay, give him his bridle!" said the sly-looking little man; "he can claim a pound for it; but that won't make him right. Look at your saddle-cloth, sir. You will see it has burst and a three-pounds lead gone. You did it at the big water-jump the second time, and I picked it up. Here it is."

Cheer after cheer rent the air as the fact was announced. The soldiers, of course, went almost frantic.

"Here, come away," said Lord Plunger and Bradon, seizing Charley's arm, "Get away as quickly as you can. There will be a row. Your horse has already gone, with seventy or eighty of our men with him. You rode the race splendidly, old fellow!"

"That he did," said the sly-looking little man.

The Captain had lost the race. He was short by two pounds, allowing him one for his bridle. The scene of confusion that followed was indescribable.

Fortescue was taken to the carriage and quickly driven away.

"Ah, Alice!" said he, "I told you I should carry your colours to the fore."

"Thank God you did so! This is your first and last race, promise me."

The Captain went back to Clough-bally-More Castle; but in a day or two he was non est, and his creditors were done.

The regiment had a jovial night of it. Fortescue's health was drunk in bumper after bumper; but he was not there to acknowledge the compliment; some one else had him in charge.

A short time after the Stiffshire were quartered in Manchester, and the Colonel one day encountered no less a person than Captain O'Rooney.

"See now, Colonel," said the latter, "you must bear me no ill-will. I did a shabby trick, I'll allow, at the wall, but I was a ruined man. I'm all right now. I've married a rich cotton-spinner's widow with some three thousand a year; but it's all settled on her."

Fortescue and Miss Gwynne are long ago married; and at the different race meetings that they attended they often saw the celebrated Captain O'Rooney performing; but in all the numerous races he was engaged in, he never rode—at any rate in a steeple-chase—another DEAD HEAT.

ONLY THE MARE

When one opens a suspicious-looking envelope and finds something about "Mr Shopley's respectful compliments" on the inside of the flap, the chances are that Mr Shopley is hungering for what we have Ovid's authority for terming irritamenta malorum. Not wishing to have my appetite for breakfast spoiled, I did not pursue my researches into a communication of this sort which was amongst my letters on a certain morning in November; but turned over the pile until the familiar caligraphy of Bertie Peyton caught my eye: for Bertie was Nellie's brother, and Nellie Peyton, it had been decided, would shortly cease to be Nellie Peyton; a transformation for which I was the person chiefly responsible. Bertie's communication was therefore seized with avidity. It ran as follows:—

"The Lodge, Holmesdale.

"My dear Charlie,

"I sincerely hope that you have no important engagements just at present, as I want you down here most particularly.

"You know that there was a small race-meeting at Bibury the other day. I rode over on Little Lady, and found a lot of the 14th Dragoons there; that conceited young person Blankney amongst the number. Now, although Blankley has a very considerable personal knowledge of the habits and manners of the ass, he doesn't know much about the horse; and for that reason he saw fit to read us a lecture on breeding and training, pointing his moral and adorning his tale with a reference to my mare—whose pedigree, you know, is above suspicion. After, however, he had kindly informed us what a thoroughbred horse ought to be, he looked at Little Lady and said, 'Now I shouldn't think that thing was thoroughbred!' It ended by my matching her against that great raw-boned chestnut of his: three and a half miles over the steeplechase course, to be run at the Holmesdale Meeting, on the 5th December.

"As you may guess, I didn't want to win or lose a lot of money, and when he asked what the match should be for, I suggested '£20 a-side.' 'Hardly worth while making a fuss for £20!' he said, rather sneeringly. '£120, if you like!' I answered, rather angrily, hardly meaning what I said; but he pounced on the offer. Of course I couldn't retract, and so very stupidly, I plunged deeper into the mire, and made several bets with the fellows who were round us. They laid me 3 to 1 against the mare, but I stand to lose nearly £500.

"You see now what I want. I ride quite 12 stone, as you know; the mare is to carry 11 stone, and you can just manage that nicely. I know you'll come if you can, and if you telegraph I'll meet you.

"Your's ever,

Bertie Peyton.

"P.S.—Nellie sends love, and hopes to see you soon. No one is here, but the aunt is coming shortly."

I was naturally anxious to oblige him, and luckily had nothing to keep me in town; so that afternoon saw me rapidly speeding southwards, and the evening, comfortably domiciled at The Lodge.

Bertie, who resided there with his sister, was not a rich man. £500 was a good deal more than he could afford to lose, and poor little Nellie was in a great flutter of anxiety and excitement in consequence of her brother's rashness. As for the mare, she could gallop and jump; and though we had no means of ascertaining the abilities of Blankney's chestnut, we had sufficient faith in our Little Lady to enable us to "come up to the scratch smiling;" and great hopes that we should be enabled to laugh at the result in strict accordance with the permission given in the old adage, "Let those laugh who win."

It was not very pleasant to rise at an abnormal hour every morning, and arrayed in great-coats and comforters sufficient for six people, to rush rapidly about the country; but it was necessary. I was a little too heavy, and we could not afford to throw away any weight, nor did I wish to have my saddle reduced to the size of a cheese-plate, as would have been my fate had I been unable to reduce myself. Breakfast, presided over by Nellie, compensated for all matutinal discomforts; and then she came round to the stables to give the mare an encouraging pat and a few words of advice and endearment which I verily believe the gallant little mare understood, for it rubbed its nose against her shoulder as though it would say, "Just you leave it in my hands—or, rather, to my feet—and I'll make it all right!" Then we started for our gallop, Bertie riding a steady old iron-grey hunter.

The fourth of December arrived, and the mare's condition was splendid. "As fit as a fiddle," was the verdict of Smithers, a veterinary surgeon who had done a good deal of training in his time, and who superintended our champion's preparation; and though we were ignorant of the precise degree of fitness to which fiddles usually attain, he seemed pleased, and so, consequently, were we. Unfortunately on this morning Bertie's old hunter proved to be very lame, so I was forced to take my last gallop by myself; and with visions of success on the morrow, I passed rapidly through the keen air over the now familiar way; for the course was within a couple of miles of the house, and so we had the great advantage of being able to accustom the mare to the very journey she would have to take.

Bertie was in a field at the back of the stables when I neared home again. "Come on!" he shouted, pointing to a nasty hog-backed stile, which separated us. I gave Little Lady her head, and she cantered up to it, lighting on the other side like a very bird! Bertie didn't speak as I trotted up to him, but he looked up into my face with a triumphant smile more eloquent than words.

"You've given her enough, haven't you?" he remarked, patting her neck, as I dismounted in the yard.

"You've given her enough," usually signifies "you've given her too much." But I opined not, and we walked round to the house tolerably well convinced that the approaching banking transactions would be on the right side of the book.

Despite a walk with Nellie, and the arrival of a pile of music from town, the afternoon passed rather slowly; perhaps we were too anxious to be cheerful. To make matters worse, dinner was to be postponed till past eight, for the aunt was coming, and Nellie was afraid the visitor would be offended if they did not wait for her.

"You look very bored and tired, sir!" said Nellie pouting prettily; "I believe you'd yawn if it wasn't rude!"

I assured her that I could not, under any circumstances, be guilty of such an enormity.

"It's just a quarter past seven. We'll go and meet the carriage, and then perhaps you'll be able to keep awake until dinner-time!" and so with a look of dignity which would have been very effective if the merry smile in her eyes had been less apparent, the little lady swept out of the room; to return shortly arrayed in furs, and a most coquettish-looking hat, and the smallest and neatest possible pair of boots, which in their efforts to appear strong and sturdy only made their extreme delicacy more decided.

"Come, sleepy boy!" said she, holding out a grey-gloved hand. I rose submissively, and followed her out of the snug drawing-room to the open air.

Bertie was outside, smoking.

"We are going to meet the aunt, dear," explained Nellie. "I'm afraid she'll be cross, because it's so cold."

"She's not quite so inconsequent as that, I should fancy; but it is cold, and isn't the ground hard!" I said.

"It is hard!" cried Bertie, stamping vigorously. "By Jove! I hope it's not going to freeze!" and afflicted by the notion—for a hard frost would have rendered it necessary to postpone the races—he hurried off to the stables, to consult one of the men who was weather-wise.

Some stone steps led from the terrace in front of the house to the lawn; at either end of the top-step was a large globe of stone, and on to one of these thoughtless little Nellie climbed. I stretched out my hand, fearing that the weather had made it slippery, but before I could reach her she slipped and fell.

"You rash little person!" I said, expecting that she would spring up lightly.

"Oh! my foot!" she moaned; and gave a little shriek of pain as she put it to the ground.

I took her in my arms, and summoning her maid, carried her to the drawing-room.

"Take off her boot," I said to the girl, but Nellie could not bear to have her foot touched, and feebly moaned that her arm hurt her.

"Oh! pray send for a doctor, sir!" implored the maid, while Nellie only breathed heavily, with half-closed eyes; and horribly frightened, I rushed off, hardly waiting to say a word to the poor little sufferer.

"Whatever is the matter?" Bertie cried, as I burst into the harness-room.

"Where's the doctor?" I replied, hastily. "Nellie's hurt herself—sprained her ankle, and hurt her arm—broken it, perhaps!"

"How? When?" he asked.

"There's no time to explain. She slipped down. Where's the doctor?"

"Our doctor is ill, and has no substitute. There's no one nearer than Lawson, at Oakley, and that's twelve miles, very nearly."

"Then I must ride at once," I reply.

"Saddle my horse as quickly as possible," said Bertie to the groom.

"He's lame, sir, can't move!" the man replied, and I remembered that it was so.

"Put a saddle on one of the carriage horses—anything so long as there's no delay."

"They're out, sir! Gone to the station. There's nothing in the stable—only the mare; and to gallop her to Oakley over the ground as it is to-night, will pretty well do for her chance to-morrow—to say nothing of the twelve miles back again. The carriage will be home in less than an hour, sir," the man remonstrated.

"It may be, you don't know, the trains are so horridly unpunctual. Saddle the mare, Jarvis, as quickly as you can—every minute may be of the utmost value!" As Bertie spoke the faintest look of regret showed itself on his face for a second; for of course he knew that such a journey would very materially affect, if it did not entirely destroy, the mare's chance.

Jarvis, who I think had been speculating, very reluctantly took down the saddle and bridle from their pegs, but I snatched them from his arms, and assisted by Bertie, was leading her out of the stable in a very few seconds.

"Hurry on! Never mind the mare—good thing she's in condition," said Bertie, who only thought now of his sister. "I'll go and see the girl."

"I can cut across the fields, can't I, by the cross roads?" I asked, settling in the saddle.

"No! no! Keep to the highway; it's safer at night. Go on!" I heard him call as I went at a gallop down the cruelly hard road.

The ground rang under the mare's feet, and in spite of all my anxiety for Nellie I could not help feeling one pang of regret for Little Lady, whose free, bounding action, augured well for what her chances would have been on the morrow—chances which I felt were rapidly dying out; for if this journey didn't lame her nothing would. Stones had just been put down as a matter of course; but there was no time for picking the way, and taking tight hold of her head we sped on.

About a mile from the Lodge I came to the crossroads. Before me was a long vista of stone—regular rocks, so imperfectly were they broken: to the right was the smoother and softer pathway over the fields—perfect going in comparison to the road. Just over this fence, a hedge, and with hardly another jump I should come again into the highway, saving quite two miles by the cut. Bertie had said "Don't," but probably he had spoken thoughtlessly, and it was evidently the best thing to do, for the time I saved might be of the greatest value to poor little suffering Nellie! I pulled up, and drew the mare back to the opposite hedge. She knew her work thoroughly. Three bounds took her across the road: she rose—the next moment I was on my back, shot some distance into the field, and she was struggling up from the ground. There had been a post and rail whose existence I had not suspected, placed some six feet from the hedge on the landing side. She sprang up, no legs were broken; and I, a good deal shaken and confused, rose to my feet, wondering what to do next. I had not had time to collect my thoughts when I heard the rattle of a trap on the road; it speedily approached, and the moonlight revealed the jolly features of old Tom Heathfield, a friendly farmer.

"Accident, sir?" he asked, pulling up. "What! Mr Vaughan!" as he caught sight of my face. "What's the—— why! that ain't the mare, sure-lie?"

All the neighbourhood was in a ferment of excitement about the races, and the sight of Little Lady in such a place at such a time struck horror to the honest old farmer.

"Yes, it is—I'm sorry to say. Miss Peyton has met with an accident. I was going for the doctor, and unfortunately there was nothing else in the stable."

"You was going to Oakley, I s'pose, sir? It'll be ruination to the mare. Miss Peyton hurt herself! I'll bowl over, sir; it won't take long; this little horse o' mine can trot a good 'un; and I can bring the doctor with me. The fences, there, is mended with wire. You'd cut the mare to pieces."

"I can't say how obliged to you I am——"

"Glad of the opportunity of obliging Miss Peyton, sir; she's a real lady!" He was just starting when he checked himself. "There's a little public house about a hundred yards further on; if you don't mind waiting there I'll send Smithers to look at the mare. I pass his house. All right, sir."

His rough little cob started off at a pace for which I had not given it credit; and I slowly followed, leading the mare towards the glimmering light which Heathfield had pointed out. My charge stepped out well, and I didn't think that there was anything wrong, though glad, of course, to have a professional opinion.

A man was hanging about the entrance to the public-house, and with his assistance the mare was bestowed in a kind of shed, half cow-house, half stable; and as the inside of the establishment did not look by any means inviting, I lit a cigar and lounged about outside, awaiting the advent of Smithers.

He didn't arrive; and in the course of wandering to and fro I found myself against a window. Restlessly I was just moving away when a voice inside the room repeated the name of Blankney. I started, and turning round, looked in.

It was a small apartment, with a sanded floor, and two persons were seated on chairs before the fire conversing earnestly. One of them was a middle-aged man, clad in a brown great-coat with a profusion of fur-collar and cuffs which it would scarcely be libel to term "mangy." He was the owner of an unwholesome-looking face, decorated as to the chin with a straggling crop of bristles which he would have probably termed an imperial.

"Wust year I ever 'ad!" he exclaimed (and a broken pane in the window enabled me to hear distinctly). "The Two Thousand 'orse didn't run; got in deep over the Derby; Hascot was hawful; and though I had a moral for the Leger, it went down."

His own morals, judging from his appearance and conversation, appeared to have followed the example of that for the Leger.

"I can't follow your plans about this race down here, though," said his companion, a younger man, who seemed to hold the first speaker in great awe despite his confessions of failure. "Don't you say that this young Blankney's horse can't get the distance?"

"I do. He never was much good, I 'ear; never won nothing, though he's run in two or three hurdle-races; and since Phil Kelly's been preparing of 'im for this race he's near about broke down. His legs swell up like bolsters after his gallops; and he can't get three miles at all, I don't believe, without he's pulled up and let lean agin something on the journey to rest hisself."

"And yet you're backing him?"

"And yet I'm backing of him."

"This young Peyton's mare can't be worse?" said the younger man, interrogatively.

"That mare, it's my belief, would be fancied for the Grand National if she was entered, and some of the swells saw 'er. She's a real good 'un!" replied the man with the collar.

"I see. You've got at her jockey. You're an artful one, you are."

As the jockey to whom they alluded, I was naturally much interested.

"No, I ain't done that, neither. He's a gentleman, and it's no use talkin' to such as 'im. They ain't got the sense to take up a good thing when they see it—though, for the matter o' that, most of the perfessionals is as bad as the gentlemen. All's fair in love and war," says I; "and this 'ere's war."