indolently at intervals to their exercise,—­the flower of the English aristocracy residing in the place.  You leave the town and stroll to the wide open heath, where all is brightness and space; the white rails stand forth against the dear blue sky—­the brushing gallop ever and anon startles the ear and eye; crowds of stable urchins, full of silent importance, stud the heath; you feel elated and long to bound over the well groomed turf and to try the speed of the careering wind.  All things at Newmarket train the mind to racing.  Life seems on the start, and dull indeed were he who could rein in his feelings when such inspiring objects meet together to madden them!”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing his paper cap in the air as the Yorkshireman concluded.—­“Bravo!—­werry good indeed!  You speak like ten Lord Mayors—­never heard nothing better.  Dash my vig, if I won’t go.  By Jove, you’ve done it.  Tell me one thing—­is there a good place to feed at?”

“Capital!” replied the Yorkshireman, “beef, mutton, cheese, ham, all the delicacies of the season, as the sailor said”; and thereupon the Yorkshireman and Jorrocks shook hands upon the bargain.

Sunday night arrived, and with it arrived, at the “Belle Sauvage,” in Ludgate Hill, Mr. Jorrocks’s boy “Binjimin,” with Mr. Jorrocks’s carpet-bag; and shortly after Mr. Jorrocks, on his chestnut hunter, and the Yorkshireman, in a hack cab, entered the yard.  Having consigned his horse to Binjimin; after giving him a very instructive lesson relative to the manner in which he would chastise him if he heard of his trotting or playing any tricks with the horse on his way home, Mr. Jorrocks proceeded to pay the remainder of his fare in the coach office.  The mail was full inside and out, indeed the book-keeper assured him he could have filled a dozen more, so anxious ware all London to see the Riddlesworth run.  “Inside,” said he, “are you and your friend, and if it wern’t that the night air might give you cold, Mr. Jorrocks” (for all the book-keepers in London know him), “I should have liked to have got you outsides, and I tried to make an exchange with two black-legs, but they would hear of nothing less than two guineas a head, which wouldn’t do, you know.  Here comes another of your passengers—­a great foreign nobleman, they say—­Baron something—­though he looks as much like a foreign pickpocket as anything else.”

“Vich be de voiture?” inquired a tall, gaunt-looking foreigner, with immense moustache, a high conical hat with a bright buckle, long, loose, blueish-blackish frock-coat, very short white waistcoat, baggy brownish striped trousers, and long-footed Wellington boots, with a sort of Chinese turn up at the toe.  “Vich be de Newmarket Voiture?” said he, repeating the query, as he entered the office and deposited a silk umbrella, a camlet cloak, and a Swiss knapsack on the counter.  The porter, without any attempt at an answer, took his goods and walked off to the