' the pitch-and-toss barney, as every man as _is_ a man
finds the werry salt of life. Yah! This here Moral game is a gettin'
played down too darned low for anythink. And wot's it mean, arter all?
Why, 'No Naughtiness, except for the Nobs!' That's about the exact
size of it, and it's blazing beastly, BOB!

"Only one of the dashed Deppyties talked a mossel o' sense, fur as _I_
see. A certain MOSSOO DER KERJEGU, a Republican, too, bless his boko!
said as 'races were essential to 'orsebreeding, and that without
betting there would be no races.' O.K. you are, MOSSOO DER K.!
And then they up and chuck hus Bookies! No bookies, no betting; no
betting, no races; no racing, no 'osses; no 'osses, no nothink! That's
how it runs, BOB, or I'm a sossidge!

"But this here bloomin' Republick is too rediklus for anythink. Look
at the kiddish kick-up along o' the visit of the Hempress! Why, if
_we_ 'ad that duffer, DEROULEDE, on Newmarket 'Eath, we should just
duck him in a 'orsepond, like a copped Welsher. Here they washup him,
or else knuckle under to him, like a skeery Coster's missus when
her old man's on the mawl, and feels round arter her ribs with his
bloomin' high-lows. _That's_ yer high-polite French Artists and brave
booky-banishin' Dippyties! Yah!

"'Owsomever, I suppose, BOB, I must clear out of this. MOSSOO
CONSTANS, he said, 'if the Bill were carried there would be an end to
bookmakers.' And it _was_ carried, by 340 mugs against 144 right 'uns.
And arter all me and my sort has done for Parry! It's mean, that's
wot it is, BOB. P'raps they'll chuck British _jockeys_ next! Much good
their _Grong Pree_, ancetrer, will be _then_, my boy. _Our_ 'osses,
_our_ jockeys, _and_ our bookies has bin the making of French
Sport,--and werrv nice little pickings there's bin out of it take it
all round. Wot'll _Ler Hig Life_, and Hart, and Leagues o' Patriots,
and miles o' bullyvards, and COOK's Tourists and Awful Towers do
for Parry without _hus_, I wonder? We shall _see_! Ah, Madame _lar
Republick_, maybe you'll be sorry, you and your bullyin' jondarms,
for chucking o' me afore you're through. As MAT MOPUS put it:--

It was all werry well to dissemble yer love,
But wy did yer kick me down-stairs?

Chucked it is, though, and I shall probably see yer next week, BOB.
Thanks be, the Flat Season's at 'and! Arter all, there's no place
like 'ome! No!--

'Mid _Boises_ and Bullyvards tho' we may roam,
Be it hever so foggy, there's no