If Farmer Scourgefield had made a mob, he could not have got one that would
be more likely to do damage to his farm than this steeple-chase one. Nor
was the assemblage confined to the people of the country, for the
Granddiddle Junction, by its connection with the great network of railways,
enabled all patrons of this truly national sport to sweep down upon the
spot like flocks of wolves; and train after train disgorged a generous
mixture of sharps and flats, commingling with coatless, baggy-breeched
vagabonds, the emissaries most likely of the Peeping Toms and Infallible
Joes, if not the worthies themselves.
'Dear, but it's a noble sight!' exclaimed Viney to Watchorn as they sat on
their horses, below a rickety green-baize-covered scaffold, labelled,
'GRAND STAND; admission, Two-and-sixpence,' raised against Scourgefield's
stack-yard wall, eyeing the population pouring in from all parts. 'Dear,
but it's a noble sight!' said he, shading the sun from his eyes, and
endeavouring to identify the different vehicles in the distance.
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