The chaps about him all covered with chains and rings and brooches, were in the duffing line—­sold brimstoned sparrows for canary-birds, Norwich shawls for real Cashmere, and dried cabbage-leaves for cigars.  Now each has a first-rate house, horses and carriages, and a play-actress among them.  Yon chap, with the extravagantly big mouth, is a cabinet-maker at Cambridge.  He’ll bet you a thousand pounds as soon as look at you.”

“The chap on the right of the post with the red tie, is the son of an ostler.  He commenced betting thousands with a farthing capital.  The man next him, all teeth and hair, like a rat-catcher’s dog, is an Honourable by birth, but not very honourable in his nature.”  “But see,” cried Mr. Jorrocks, “Lord——­ is talking to the Cracksman.”  “To be sure,” replies Sam, “that’s the beauty of the turf.  The lord and the leg are reduced to an equality.  Take my word for it, if you have a turn for good society, you should come upon the turf.—­I say, my Lord Duke!” with all five fingers up to his hat, “I’ll lay you three to two on the Bedlamite colt.”  “Done, Mr. Spring,” replies his Grace, “three ponies to two.”  “There!” cried Mr. Spring, turning to Jorrocks, “didn’t I tell you so?” The riot around the post increases.  It is near the moment of starting, and the legs again become clamorous for what they want.  Their vehemence increases.  Each man is in extremis.  “They are off!” cries one.  “No, they are not,” replies another.  “False start,” roars a third.  “Now they come!” “No, they don’t!” “Back again.”  They are off at last, however, and away they speed over the flat.  The horses come within descrying distance.  It’s a beautiful race—­run at score the whole way, and only two tailed off within the cords.  Now they set to—­whips and spurs go, legs leap, lords shout, and amid the same scene of confusion, betting, galloping, cursing, swearing, and bellowing, the horses rush past the judge’s box.

But we have run our race, and will not fatigue our readers with repetition.  Let us, however, spend the evening, and then the “Day at Newmarket” will be done.

Mr. Spring, with his usual attention to strangers, persuades Mr. Jorrocks to make one of a most agreeable dinner-party at the “White Hart” on the assurance of spending a delightful evening.  Covers are laid for sixteen in the front room downstairs, and about six o’clock that number are ready to sit down.  Mr. Badchild, the accomplished keeper of an oyster-room and minor hell in Pickering Place, is prevailed upon to take the chair, supported on his right by Mr. Jorrocks, and on his left by Mr. Tom Rhodes, of Thames Street, while the stout, jolly, portly Jerry Hawthorn fills—­in the fullest sense of the word—­the vice-chair.  Just as the waiters are removing the covers, in stalks the Baron, in his conical hat, and reconnoitres the viands.  Sam, all politeness, invites him to join the party.  “I tank you,” replies the Baron, “but I have my wet in de next room.”  “But bring your wet with you,” rejoins Sam, “we’ll all have our wet together after dinner,” thinking the Baron meant his wine.