its throat, when, being as wise as he was at starting, he stuck his thumb in his side, and took a mental survey of the whole.—­“Ah,” said he at length—­“foin ’oss,—­foin ’oss; vot ears he has?” “Oh,” said Rogers, “they show breeding.”  “Non, non, I say vot ears he has?” “Well, but he carries them well,” was the answer.  “Non, non,” stamping, “I say vot ears (years) he has?” “Oh, hang it, I twig—­four years old.”  Then the Baron took another long look at him.  At length he resumed, “I vill my wet.”  “What’s that?” inquired Rogers of Jorrocks.  “His wet—­why, a drink to be sure,” and thereupon Rogers went to the pump and brought a glass of pure water, which the Baron refused with becoming indignation.  “Non, non,” said he stamping, “I vill my wet.”  Rogers looked at Jorrocks, and Jorrocks looked at Rogers, but neither Rogers nor Jorrocks understood him.  “I vill my wet,” repeated the Baron with vehemence.  “He must want some brandy in it,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, judging of the Baron by himself, and thereupon the lad was sent for three-penn’orth.  When it arrived, the Baron dashed it out of his hand with a prolonged sacre-e-e-e—! adding “I vill von wet-tin-nin-na-ary surgeon.”  The boy was dispatched for one, and on his arrival the veterinary surgeon went through the process that the Baron had attempted, and not being a man of many words, he just gave the Baron a nod at the end.  “How moch?” inquked the Baron of Rogers.  “Five hundred,” was the answer.  “Vot, five hundred livre?” “Oh d——­n it, you may take or leave him, just as you like, but you won’t get him for less.”  The “vet” explained that the Baron wished to know whether it was five hundred francs (French ten-pences), or five hundred guineas English money, and being informed that it was the latter, he gave his conical hat a thrust on his brow, and bolted out of the box.

But race hour approaches, and people begin to assemble in groups before the “rooms,” while tax-carts, pony-gigs, post-chaises, the usual aristocratical accompaniments of Newmarket, come dribbling at intervals into the town.  Here is old Sam Spring in a spring-cart, driven by a ploughboy in fustian, there the Earl of——­ on a ten-pound pony, with the girths elegantly parted to prevent the saddle slipping over its head, while Miss——­, his jockey’s daughter, dashes by him in a phaeton with a powdered footman, and the postilion in scarlet and leathers, with a badge on his arm.  Old Crockey puts on his greatcoat, Jem Bland draws the yellow phaeton and greys to the gateway of the “White Hart,” to take up his friend Crutch Robinson; Zac, Jack and another, have just driven on in a fly.  In short, it’s a brilliant meeting!  Besides four coronetted carriages with post-horses, there are three phaetons-and-pair; a thing that would have been a phaeton if they’d have let it; General Grosvenor’s dog-carriage, that is to say, his carriage with a dog upon it; Lady Chesterfield and the Hon. Mrs. Anson in a pony phaeton with an out-rider (Miss——­ will have one next meeting instead of the powdered footman); Tattersall in his double carriage driving without bearing-reins; Old Theobald in leather breeches and a buggy; five Bury butchers in a tax-cart; Young Dutch Sam on a pony; “Short-odds Richards” on a long-backed crocodile-looking rosinante; and no end of pedestrians.