one! That
never meant bad luck--except bad to act on. We slept here last night,
you know. It 's a mile and a quarter from the Royal Sovereign to the
field of glory. Pretty well time to start. Brailstone has a drive of a
couple of miles. Coaches from London down by this time. Abrane's dead
on Ben Todds, any odds. Poor old Braney! "Steady man, Todds." Backs
him because he's a "respectable citizen,"--don't drink. A prize-fighter
total abstainer has no spurts. Old Braney's branded for the losing side.
You might bet against Braney blindfold, Mallard. How long shall you take
to polish him off, Kit Ines?'

The opponent of Ben Todds calculated.

'Well, sir, steady Benny ought to be satisfied with his dose in, say,
about forty minutes. Maybe he won't own to it before an hour and ten.
He's got a proud English stomach.'

'Shall we be late?' Potts asked.

'Jump in,' Fleetwood said to his man. 'We may be five minutes after
time, Chummy. I had a longer drive, and had to get married on the way,
and--ah, here they are!'

'Lady coming?'

'I fancy she sticks to the coach; I don't know her tastes. Madge must
see her through it, that's positive.'

Potts deferred his astonishment at the things he was hearing and seeing,
which were only Fleetwood's riddles. The fight and the bets rang every
other matter out of his head. He beheld the lady, who had come down from
the coach like a columbine, mount it like Bean-stalk Jack. Madge was not
half so clever, and required a hand at her elbow.

After, giving hurried directions to Rundles, the landlord of the Royal
Sovereign, Fleetwood took the reins, and all three gentlemen touched
hats to the curtseying figure of Mrs. Rundles.

'You have heard, I dare say--it's an English scene,' he spoke, partly
turning his face, to Carinthia; 'particularly select to-day. Their
Majesties might look on, as the Caesars did in Rome. Pity we can't
persuade them. They ought to set the fashion. Here we have the English
people at their grandest, in prime condition, if they were not drunk
overnight; and dogged, perfectly awake, magnanimous, all for fair play;
fine fellows, upon my word. A little blood, of course.'

But the daughter of the Old Buccaneer would have inherited a tenderness
for the sight of blood. She should make a natural Lady Patroness of
England's National Sports. We might turn her to that purpose; wander
over England with a tail of shouting riff-raft; have exhibitions, join
in them, display our a