ropes that guard the
run in, and the course-keeper in a shooting-jacket on a rough pony
to crack his whip, and cry to half a dozen stable-lads to "clear the
course," before the horses come flying towards home. Now all is tremor;
hope and fear vacillating in each breast. Silence stands breathless with
expectation--all eyes are riveted--the horses come within descrying
distance--"beautiful!" three close together, two behind. "Clear the
course! clear the course! pray clear the course!" "Polly Hopkins! Polly
Hopkins!" roar a hundred voices as they near. "O, Fy! O, Fy!" respond an
equal number. "The horse! the horse!" bellow a hundred more, as though
their yells would aid his speed, as Polly Hopkins, O, Fy! and Talleyrand
rush neck-and-neck along the cords and pass the judge's box. A cry of
"dead heat!" is heard. The bystanders see as suits their books, and
immediately rush to the judge's box, betting, bellowing, roaring,
and yelling the whole way. "What's won? what's won? what's won?" is
vociferated from a hundred voices. "Polly Hopkins! Polly Hopkins! Polly
Hopkins!" replies Mr. Clark with judicial dignity. "By how much? by how
much?" "Half a head--half a head," [18] replies the same functionary.
"What's second?" "O, Fy!" and so, amid the song of "Pretty, pretty Polly
Hopkins," from the winners, and curses and execrations long, loud, and
deep, from the losers, the scene closes.

The admiring winners follow Polly to the rubbing-house, while the losing
horses are left in the care of their trainers and stable-boys, who
console themselves with hopes of "better luck next time."

After a storm comes a calm, and the next proceeding is the wheeling of
the judge's box, and removal of the old stakes and ropes to another
course on a different part of the heath, which is accomplished by a few
ragged rascals, as rude and uncouth as the furniture they bear. In less
than half an hour the same group of anxious careworn countenances are
again turned upon each other at the betting-post, as though they had
never separated. But see! the noble owner of Trick, by Catton, is in the
crowd, and Jem Bland eyeing him like a hawk. "I say, Waggey," cries he
(singling out a friend stationed by his lordship), "had you ought on
Trick, by Catton?" "No, Jem," roars Wagstaff, shaking his head, "I knew
my man too well." "Why now, Waggey, do you know I wouldn't have done
such a thing for the world! no, not even to have been made a Markiss!"
a horse-laugh fo