“Oh, you backed the field, did you?”

“To be sure.  I always go with the strongest side.”

“And you have lost?”

“A hundred and fifty.”

No wonder Jack Stuart looked blue.  A fifth part of his yearly income gone at one smash—­and in such a foolish way, too.

“If the excitement could last three or four days, it would almost be worth the money,” he said; “but no sooner do you hear the bell—­see the crush of horses at the starting-post—­bang—­bang—­off they go!—­and in a minute or two all is over, and your money gone.  I will have a race of snails between London and York.  It would be occupation for a year.  But come, let us leave the abominable place.”  He hurried me into the stanhope, gave the rein to his active grey mare, and making a detour towards Kingston, we soon left the crowd behind us.

“I will never bet on a horse again,” said Jack, ruminating on his loss.  “Why should I?  I know nothing about racing, and never could understand odds in my life; and just at this moment, too, I can’t spare the coin.”

At the same time he did not spare the whip; for you will always observe, that a meditative gentleman in a gig is peculiarly impressive on his horse’s shoulder.  The grey trotted along, or burst into an occasional canter.

“I’ll back this grey against Cotherstone for fifty pounds.”

“To stand flogging?  I think you would win.”

“No, to jump.  See how she springs.”

Hereupon Jack touched the mare in a very scientific manner, just under the fore-arm, and the animal, indignant at this disrespectful manner of proceeding, gave a prodigious rush forward, and then reared.

“You’ll break the shafts,” I said.

“I think she is going to run away, but there seems no wall near us—­and I don’t think any coaches travel this road.  Sit still, for she’s off.”

The mare, in good truth, resented her master’s conduct in a high degree, and took the bit in her teeth.

“If she doesn’t kick, it’s all right,” said Jack.

“She has no time to kick if she goes at this pace,” I answered; “keep her straight.”

The speed continued unabated for some time, and we were both silent.  I watched the road as far in advance as I could see, in dread of some waggon, or coach, or sudden turn, or even a turnpike gate, for the chances would have been greatly against an agreeable termination.

“I’ll tell you what,” cried Jack, turning round to me, “I think I’ve found out a way of paying my losses.”

“Indeed! but can’t you manage in the mean time to stop the mare?”

“Poh! let her go.  I think rapid motion is a great help to the intellect.  I feel quite sure I can pay my bets without putting my hand into my pocket.”

“How?  Pull the near check.  She’ll be in the ditch.”

“Why, I think I shall publish a novel.”

I could scarcely keep from laughing, though a gardener’s cart was two hundred yards in advance.