hin with the race card--he'll be a
lord too, I suppose?" "No,--that's Mr. Gully, as honest a man as ever
came here,--that's Crockford before him. The man on the right is
Mr. C----, who they call the 'cracksman,' because formerly he was a
professional housebreaker, but he has given up that trade, and turned
gentleman, bets, and keeps a gaming-table. This little ugly black-faced
chap, that looks for all the world like a bilious Scotch terrier,
has lately come among us. He was a tramping pedlar--sold worsted
stockings--attended country courses, and occasionally bet a pair. Now he
bets thousands of pounds, and keeps racehorses. The chaps about him
all covered with chains and rings and brooches, were in the duffing
line--sold brimstoned sparrows for canary-birds, Norwich shawls for real
Cashmere, and dried cabbage-leaves for cigars. Now each has a first-rate
house, horses and carriages, and a play-actress among them. Yon chap,
with the extravagantly big mouth, is a cabinet-maker at Cambridge. He'll
bet you a thousand pounds as soon as look at you."

"The chap on the right of the post with the red tie, is the son of an
ostler. He commenced betting thousands with a farthing capital. The man
next him, all teeth and hair, like a rat-catcher's dog, is an Honourable
by birth, but not very honourable in his nature." "But see," cried Mr.
Jorrocks, "Lord---- is talking to the Cracksman." "To be sure," replies
Sam, "that's the beauty of the turf. The lord and the leg are reduced to
an equality. Take my word for it, if you have a turn for good society,
you should come upon the turf.--I say, my Lord Duke!" with all five
fingers up to his hat, "I'll lay you three to two on the Bedlamite
colt." "Done, Mr. Spring," replies his Grace, "three ponies to two."
"There!" cried Mr. Spring, turning to Jorrocks, "didn't I tell you so?"
The riot around the post increases. It is near the moment of starting,
and the legs again become clamorous for what they want. Their vehemence
increases. Each man is _in extremis_. "They are off!" cries one. "No,
they are not," replies another. "False start," roars a third. "Now they
come!" "No, they don't!" "Back again." They are off at last, however,
and away they speed over the flat. The horses come within descrying
distance. It's a beautiful race--run at score the whole way, and only
two tailed off within the cords. Now they set to--whips and spurs go,
legs leap, lords shout, and amid the same scene of confusion,