“Trick, by Catton, don’t start!” cries a voice.  “Impossible!” exclaim his backers.  “Quite true, I’m just from the weighing-house, and——­told me so himself.”  “Shame! shame!” roar those who have backed him, and “honour—­
;rascals—­rogues—­thieves—­robbery—­swindle—­turf-ruined”—­fly from tongue to tongue, but they are all speakers with never a speaker to cry order.  Meanwhile the lads have galloped by on their hacks with the horses’ cloths to the rubbing-house, and the horses have actually started, and are now visible in the distance sweeping over the open heath, apparently without guide or beacon.

The majority of the ring rush to the white judge’s box, and have just time to range themselves along the rude stakes and ropes that guard the run in, and the course-keeper in a shooting-jacket on a rough pony to crack his whip, and cry to half a dozen stable-lads to “clear the course,” before the horses come flying towards home.  Now all is tremor; hope and fear vacillating in each breast.  Silence stands breathless with expectation—­all eyes are riveted—­the horses come within descrying distance—­“beautiful!” three close together, two behind.  “Clear the course! clear the course! pray clear the course!” “Polly Hopkins!  Polly Hopkins!” roar a hundred voices as they near.  “O, Fy!  O, Fy!” respond an equal number.  “The horse! the horse!” bellow a hundred more, as though their yells would aid his speed, as Polly Hopkins, O, Fy! and Talleyrand rush neck-and-neck along the cords and pass the judge’s box.  A cry of “dead heat!” is heard.  The bystanders see as suits their books, and immediately rush to the judge’s box, betting, bellowing, roaring, and yelling the whole way.  “What’s won? what’s won? what’s won?” is vociferated from a hundred voices.  “Polly Hopkins!  Polly Hopkins!  Polly Hopkins!” replies Mr. Clark with judicial dignity.  “By how much? by how much?” “Half a head—­half a head,” [18] replies the same functionary.  “What’s second?” “O, Fy!” and so, amid the song of “Pretty, pretty Polly Hopkins,” from the winners, and curses and execrations long, loud, and deep, from the losers, the scene closes.

The admiring winners follow Polly to the rubbing-house, while the losing horses are left in the care of their trainers and stable-boys, who console themselves with hopes of “better luck next time.”

After a storm comes a calm, and the next proceeding is the wheeling of the judge’s box, and removal of the old stakes and ropes to another course on a different part of the heath, which is accomplished by a few ragged rascals, as rude and uncouth as the furniture they bear.  In less than half an hour the same group of anxious careworn countenances are again turned upon each other at the betting-post, as though they had never separated.  But see! the noble owner of Trick, by Catton, is in the crowd, and Jem Bland eyeing him like a hawk.  “I say, Waggey,” cries he (singling out a friend stationed by his lordship), “had you ought on Trick, by Catton?” “No, Jem,” roars Wagstaff, shaking his head, “I knew my man too well.”  “Why now, Waggey, do you know I wouldn’t have done such a thing for the world! no, not even to have been made a Markiss!” a horse-laugh follows this denunciation, at which the newly created marquis bites his livid lips.