But it is half-past two (an hour and a half after time), and there is at last a disposition evinced by some of the parties to go to the post.  Broad-backed parti-coloured jockeys are seen converging that way, and the betting-men close in, getting more and more clamorous for odds.  What a hubbub!  How they bellow!  How they roar!  A universal deafness seems to have come over the whole of them.  ’Seven to one ‘gain the Bart.!’ screams one—­’I’ll take eight!’ roars another.  ‘Five to one agen Herc’les!’ cries a third—­’Done!’ roars a fourth.  ‘Twice over!’ rejoins the other—­’Done!’ replies the taker.  ’Ar’ll take five to one agin the Daddy!’—­’I’ll lay six!’ ’What’ll any one lay ‘gin Parvo?’ And so they raise such an uproar that the squeak, squeak, squeak of the

    ‘Devil among the tailors’

is hardly heard.

Then, in a partial lull, the voice of Lord Scamperdale rises, exclaiming, ’Oh, you hideous Hobgoblin, bull-and-mouth of a boy! you think, because I’m a lord, and can’t swear, or use coarse language—­’ And again the hubbub, led on by the

    ‘Devil among the tailors,’

drowns the exclamations of the speaker.  It’s that Pacey again; he’s accusing the virtuous Mr. Spraggon of handing his extra weight to Lord Scamperdale; and Jack, in the full consciousness of injured guilt, intimates that the blood of the Spraggons won’t stand that—­that there’s ’only one way of settling it, and he’ll be ready for Pacey half an hour after the race.’

At length the horses are all out—­one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—­fifteen of them, moving about in all directions:  some taking an up-gallop, others a down; some a spicy trot, others walking to and fro; while one has still his muzzle on, lest he should unship his rider and eat him; and another’s groom follows, imploring the mob to keep off his heels if they don’t want their heads in their hands.  The noisy bell at length summons the scattered forces to the post, and the variegated riders form into as good a line as circumstances will allow.  Just as Mr. Sponge turns his horse’s head Lucy hands him her little silver sherry-flask, which our friend drains to the dregs.  As he returns it, with a warm pressure of her soft hand, a pent-up flood of tears burst their bounds, and suffuse her lustrous eyes.  She turns away to hide her emotion; at the same instant a wild shout rends the air—­’W-h-i-r-r!  They’re off!’

Thirteen get away, one turns tail, and our friend in the Lincoln green is left performing a pas seul, asking the rearing horse, with an oath, if he thinks ‘he stole him’? while the mob shout and roar; and one wicked wag, in coaching parlance, advises him to pay the difference, and get inside.

But what a display of horsemanship is exhibited by the flyers!  Tongs comes off at the first fence, the horse making straight for a pond, while the rest rattle on in a mass.  The second fence is small, but there’s a ditch on the far side, and Pusher and Gander severally measure their lengths on the rushy pasture beyond.  Still there are ten left, and nobody ever reckoned upon these getting to the far end.