But where is Mr. Jorrocks all this time?  Why eating brawn in the “Rutland Arms” with his friend the Baron, perfectly unconscious that all these passers-by were not the daily visables of the place.  “Dash my vig,” said he, as he bolted another half of the round, “I see no symptoms of a stir.  Come, my lord, do me the honour to take another glass of sherry.”  His lordship was nothing loath, so by mutual entreaties they finished the bottle, besides a considerable quantity of porter.  A fine, fat, chestnut, long-tailed Suffolk punch cart mare—­fresh from the plough—­having been considerately provided by the Yorkshireman for Mr. Jorrocks, with a cob for himself, they proceeded to mount in the yard, when Mr. Jorrocks was concerned to find that the Baron had nothing to carry him.  His lordship, too, seemed disconcerted, but it was only momentary; for walking up to the punch mare, and resting his elbow on her hind quarter to try if she kicked, he very coolly vaulted up behind Mr. Jorrocks.  Now Jorrocks, though proud of the patronage of a lord, did not exactly comprehend whether he was in earnest or not, but the Baron soon let him know; for thrusting his conical hat on his brow, he put his arm round Jorrocks’s waist, and gave the old mare a touch in the flank with the Chinese boot, crying out—­“Along me, brave garcon, along ma cher,” and the owner of the mare living at Kentford, she went off at a brisk trot in that direction, while the Yorkshireman slipped down the town unperceived.  The sherry had done its business on them both; the Baron, and who, perhaps was the most “cut” of the two, chaunted the Marsellaise hymn of liberty with as much freedom as though he were sitting in the saddle.  Thus they proceeded laughing and singing until the Bury pay-gate arrested their progress, when it occurred to the steersman to ask if they were going right.  “Be this the vay to Newmarket races?” inquired Jorrocks of the pike-keeper.  The man dived into the small pocket of his white apron for a ticket and very coolly replied, “Shell out, old ’un.”  “How much?” said Jorrocks.  “Tuppence,” which having got, he said, “Now, then, you may turn, for the heath be over yonder,” pointing back, “at least it was there this morning, I know.”  After a volley of abuse for his impudence, Mr. Jorrocks, with some difficulty got the old mare pulled round, for she had a deuced hard mouth of her own, and only a plain snaffle in it; at last, however, with the aid of a boy to beat her with a furze-bush, they got her set a-going again, and, retracing their steps, they trotted “down street,” rose the hill, and entered the spacious wide-extending flat of Newmarket Heath.  The races were going forward on one of the distant courses, and a slight, insignificant, black streak, swelling into a sort of oblong (for all the world like an overgrown tadpole), was all that denoted the spot, or interrupted the verdant aspect of the quiet extensive plain.  Jorrocks was horrified, having through life pictured Epsom as a mere drop