Bullock carts, within which are black-eyed, bold beauties, profusely burdened with silver ornaments, are drawn up in lines. Ekkas—­small jingling vehicles with a dome-shaped canopy and curtains at the sides—­drawn by gaily caparisoned ponies, and containing fat, portly Baboos, jingle and rattle over the ruts on the side roads.

Sweetmeat sellers, with trays of horrible looking filth, made seemingly of insects, clarified butter, and sugar, dodge through the crowd dispensing their abominable looking but seemingly much relished wares.  Tall policemen, with blue jackets, red puggries, yellow belts, and white trousers, stalk up and down with conscious dignity.

A madcap young assistant on his pony comes tearing along across country.  The weighing for the first race is going on; horses are being saddled, some vicious brute occasionally lashing out, and scattering the crowd behind him.  The ladies are seated round the terraced grand stand; long strings of horses are being led round and round in a circle, by the syces; vehicles of every description are lying round the building.

Suddenly a bugle sounds; the judge enters his box; the ever popular old ‘Bikram,’ who officiates as starter, ambles off on his white cob, and after him go half-a-dozen handsome young fellows, their silks rustling and flashing through the fast rising mist.

A hundred field-glasses scan the start; all is silent for a moment.

‘They’re off!’ shout a dozen lungs.

‘False start!’ echo a dozen more.

The gay colours of the riders flicker confusedly in a jumble.  One horse careers madly along for half the distance, is with difficulty pulled up, and is then walked slowly back.

The others left at the post fret, and fidget, and curvet about.  At length they are again in line.  Down goes the white flag!  ‘Good start!’ shouts an excited planter.  Down goes the red flag.  ‘Off at last!’ breaks like a deep drawn sigh from the crowd, and now the six horses, all together, and at a rattling pace, tear up the hill, over the sand at the south corner, and up, till at the quarter mile post ’a blanket could cover the lot.’

Two or three tails are now showing signals of distress; heels and whips are going.  Two horses have shot ahead, a bay and a black.  ‘Jamie’ on the bay, ‘Paddy’ on the black.

Still as marble sit those splendid riders, the horses are neck and neck; now the bay by a nose, now again the black.  The distance post is passed with a rush like a whirlwind.

‘A dead heat, by Jove!’

‘Paddy wins!’ ‘Jamie has it!’ ‘Hooray, Pat!’ ‘Go it, Jamie!’ ’Well ridden!’ A subdued hum runs round the excited spectators.  The ardent racers are nose and nose.  One swift, sharp cut, the cruel whip hisses through the air, and the black is fairly ‘lifted in,’ a winner by a nose.  The ripple of conversation breaks out afresh.  The band strikes up a lively air, and the saddling for the next race goes on.