“Pray, are your clocks here by London time?” he asked of a respectable elderly-looking man whom he saw turn out of the entry leading to the Kingston rooms, and take the usual survey first up the town and then down it, and afterwards compose his hands in his breeches-pockets, there to stand to see the “world.” [17] “Come now, old ‘un—­none o’ your tricks here—­you’ve got a match on against time, I suppose,” was all the answer he could get after the man (old R—­n the ex-flagellator) had surveyed him from head to foot.

[Footnote 17:  Newmarket or London—­it’s all the same—­“The world” is but composed of one’s own acquaintance.]

We need hardly say after all these rebuffs that when Mr. Jorrocks met the Yorkshireman, he was not in the best possible humour; indeed, to say nothing of the extreme sharpness and suspicion of the people, we know of no place where a man, not fond of racing, is so completely out of his element as at Newmarket, for with the exception of a little “elbow shaking” in the evening, there is literally and truly nothing else to do.  It is “Heath,” “Ditch in,” “Abingdon mile,” “T.Y.C.  Stakes,” “Sweepstakes,” “Handicaps,” “Bet,” “Lay,” “Take,” “Odds,” “Evens,” morning, noon and night.

Mr. Jorrocks made bitter complaints during the breakfast, and some invidious comparisons between racing men and fox-hunters, which, however, became softer towards the close, as he got deeper in the delicacy of a fine Cambridge brawn.  Nature being at length appeased, he again thought of turning out, to have a look, as he said, at the shows on the course, but the appearance of his friend the Baron opposite the window, put it out of his head, and he sallied forth to join him.  The Baron was evidently incog.:  for he had on the same short dirty-white waistcoat, Chinese boots, and conical hat, that he travelled down in, and being a stranger in the land, of course he was uncommonly glad to pick up Jorrocks, so after he had hugged him a little, called him a “bon garcon,” and a few other endearing terms, he run his great long arm through his, and walked him down street, the whole peregrinations of Newmarket being comprised in the words “up street” and “down.”  He then communicated in most unrepresentable language, that he was on his way to buy “an ’oss,” and Jorrocks informing him that he was a perfect connoisseur in the article, the Baron again assured him of his distinguished consideration.  They were met by Joe Rogers the trainer with a ring-key in his hand, who led the way to the stable, and having unlocked a box in which was a fine slapping four-year old, according to etiquette he put his hat in a corner, took a switch in one hand, laid hold of the horse’s head with the other, while the lad in attendance stripped off its clothes.  The Baron then turned up his wrists, and making a curious noise in his throat, proceeded to pass his hand down each leg, and along its back, after which he gave it a thump in the belly and squeezed