answer. "Non, non,"
stamping, "I say vot ears (years) he has?" "Oh, hang it, I twig--four
years old." Then the Baron took another long look at him. At length he
resumed, "I vill my wet." "What's that?" inquired Rogers of Jorrocks.
"His wet--why, a drink to be sure," and thereupon Rogers went to the
pump and brought a glass of pure water, which the Baron refused with
becoming indignation. "Non, non," said he stamping, "I vill my wet."
Rogers looked at Jorrocks, and Jorrocks looked at Rogers, but neither
Rogers nor Jorrocks understood him. "I vill my wet," repeated the Baron
with vehemence. "He must want some brandy in it," observed Mr. Jorrocks,
judging of the Baron by himself, and thereupon the lad was sent for
three-penn'orth. When it arrived, the Baron dashed it out of his hand
with a prolonged sacre-e-e-e--! adding "I vill von wet-tin-nin-na-ary
surgeon." The boy was dispatched for one, and on his arrival the
veterinary surgeon went through the process that the Baron had
attempted, and not being a man of many words, he just gave the Baron a
nod at the end. "How moch?" inquked the Baron of Rogers. "Five hundred,"
was the answer. "Vot, five hundred livre?" "Oh d----n it, you may take
or leave him, just as you like, but you won't get him for less." The
"vet" explained that the Baron wished to know whether it was five
hundred francs (French ten-pences), or five hundred guineas English
money, and being informed that it was the latter, he gave his conical
hat a thrust on his brow, and bolted out of the box.

But race hour approaches, and people begin to assemble in groups before
the "rooms," while tax-carts, pony-gigs, post-chaises, the usual
aristocratical accompaniments of Newmarket, come dribbling at intervals
into the town. Here is old Sam Spring in a spring-cart, driven by a
ploughboy in fustian, there the Earl of---- on a ten-pound pony, with
the girths elegantly parted to prevent the saddle slipping over its
head, while Miss----, his jockey's daughter, dashes by him in a phaeton
with a powdered footman, and the postilion in scarlet and leathers, with
a badge on his arm. Old Crockey puts on his greatcoat, Jem Bland draws
the yellow phaeton and greys to the gateway of the "White Hart," to take
up his friend Crutch Robinson; Zac, Jack and another, have just driven
on in a fly. In short, it's a brilliant meeting! Besides four coronetted
carriages with post-horses, there are three phaetons-and-pair; a
thing that would h