to the
usual rush of shirt-sleeved helpers, an extremely smart, dapper little man,
who might be either a jockey or a gentleman, or both, or neither. He was a
clean-shaved, close-trimmed, spruce little fellow; remarkably natty about
the legs--indeed, all over. His close-napped hat was carefully brushed, and
what little hair appeared below its slightly curved brim was of the
pepper-and-salt mixture of--say, fifty years. His face, though somewhat
wrinkled and weather-beaten, was bright and healthy; and there was a
twinkle about his little grey eyes that spoke of quickness and watchful
observation. Altogether, he was a very quick-looking little man--a sort of
man that would know what you were going to say before you had well broke
ground. He wore no gills; and his neatly tied starcher had a white ground
with small black spots, about the size of currants. The slight interregnum
between it and his step-collared striped vest (blue stripe on a
canary-coloured ground) showed three golden foxes' heads, acting as studs
to his well-washed, neatly plaited shirt; while a sort of careless turn
back of the right cuff showed similar ornaments at his wrists. His
single-breasted, cutaway coat was Oxford mixture, with a thin cord binding,
and very natty light kerseymere mother-o'-pearl buttoned breeches, met a
pair of bright, beautifully fitting, rose-tinted tops, that wrinkled most
elegantly down to the Jersey-patterned spur. He was a remarkably well got
up little man, and looked the horseman all over.

As he emerged from the stable, where he had been mastering the ins and outs
of the establishment, learning what was allowed and what was not, what had
not been found fault with and, therefore, might be presumed upon, and so
on, he carried the smart dogskin leather glove of one hand in the other,
while the fox's head of a massive silver-mounted jockey-whip peered from
under his arm. On a ring round the fox's neck was the following
inscription: 'FROM JACK BRAGG TO HIS COUSIN DICK.'

Mr. Puffington having drawn up his mail-phaeton, and thrown the ribbons to
the active grooms at the horses' heads in the true coaching style,
proceeded to descend from his throne, and had reached the ground ere he was
aware of the presence of a stranger. Seeing him then, he made the sort of
half-obeisance of a man that does not know whether he is addressing a
gentleman or a servant, or, maybe, a scamp, going about with a prospectus.
Puff had been bit in the matte