in the ocean compared with the countless multitude of Newmarket, while the Baron, who was wholly indifferent to the matter, nearly had old Jorrocks pitched over the mare’s head by applying the furze-bush (which he had got from the boy) to her tail while Mr. Jorrocks was sitting loosely, contemplating the barrenness of the prospect.  The sherry was still alive, and being all for fun, he shuffled back into the saddle as soon as the old mare gave over kicking; and giving a loud tally-ho, with some minor “hunting noises,” which were responded to by the Baron in notes not capable of being set to music, and aided by an equally indescribable accompaniment from the old mare at every application of the bush, she went off at score over the springy turf, and bore them triumphantly to the betting-post just as the ring was in course of formation, a fact which she announced by a loud neigh on viewing her companion of the plough, as well as by unpsetting some half-dozen black-legs as she rushed through the crowd to greet her.  Great was the hubbub, shouting, swearing, and laughing,—­for though the Newmarketites are familiar with most conveyances, from a pair of horses down to a pair of shoes, it had not then fallen to their lot to see two men ride into the ring on the same horse,—­certainly not with such a hat between them as the Baron’s.

The gravest and weightiest matters will not long distract the attention of a black-leg, and the laughter having subsided without Jorrocks or the Baron being in the slightest degree disconcerted, the ring was again formed; horses’ heads again turn towards the post, while carriages, gigs, and carts form an outer circle.  A solemn silence ensues.  The legs are scanning the list.  At length one gives tongue.  “What starts?  Does Lord Eldon start?” “No, he don’t,” replies the owner.  “Does Trick, by Catton?” “Yes, and Conolly rides—­but mind, three pounds over.”  “Does John Bull?” “No John’s struck out.”  “Polly Hopkins does, so does Talleyrand, also O, Fy! out of Penitence; Beagle and Paradox also—­and perhaps Pickpocket.”

Another pause, and the pencils are pulled from the betting-books.  The legs and lords look at each other, but no one likes to lead off.  At length a voice is heard offering to take nine to one he names the winner.  “It’s short odds, doing it cautiously.  I’ll take eight then,” he adds—­“sivin!” but no one bites.  “What will anyone lay about Trick, by Catton?” inquires Jem Bland.  “I’ll lay three to two again him.  I’ll take two to one—­two ponies to one, and give you a suv. for laying it.”  “Carn’t” is the answer.  “I’ll do it, Jem,” cries a voice.  “No, you won’t,” from Bland, not liking his customer.  Now they are all at it, and what a hubbub there is!  “I’ll back the field—­I’ll lay—­I’ll take—­I’ll bet—­ponies—­fifties—­hundreds—­five hundred to two.”  “What do you want, my lord?” “Three to one against Trick, by Catton.”  “Carn’t afford it—­the odds really arn’t that in the ring.”  “Take two—­two hundred to one.”  “No.”  “Crockford, you’ll do it for me?” “Yes, my lord.  Twice over if you like.  Done, done.”  “Do it again?” “No, thank you.”