He is staring and gaping to see who is looking at him.
Pacey has made such a book as none but a wooden-headed boy like himself
could make. He has been surfeited with tips. Peeping Tom had advised him to
back Daddy Longlegs; and, _nullus error_, Sneaking Joe has counselled him
that the 'Baronet' will be 'California without cholera, and gold without
danger'; while Jemmy something, the jockey, who advertises that his 'tongue
is not for falsehood framed,' though we should think it was framed for
nothing else, has urged him to back Parvo to half the amount of the
national debt.
Altogether, Pacey has made such a mess that he cannot possibly win, and may
lose almost any sum from a thousand pounds down to a hundred and eighty.
Mr. Sponge has got well on with him, through the medium of Jack Spraggon.
Pacey is now going to what he calls 'compare'--see that he has got his bets
booked right; and, throwing his right leg over his cob's neck, he blobs on
to the ground; and, leaving the pony to take care of itself, disappears in
the crowd.
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