'What a squat little jockey!' exclaims Miss Hamilton, as a little dumpling
of a man in Lincoln green is led past the stand on a fine bay horse, some
one recognizing the rider as our old friend Caingey Thornton.
'And look who comes here?' whispers Miss Jawleyford to her sister, as Mr.
Sponge, having accomplished a mount without derangement of temper, rides
Hercules quietly past the stand, his whip-hand resting on his thigh, and
his head turned to his fair companion on the white.
'Oh, the wretch!' sneers Miss Amelia; and the fair sisters look at Lucy and
then at him with the utmost disgust.
Mr. Sponge may now be doubled up by half a dozen falls ere either of them
would suggest the propriety of having him bled.
Lucy's cheeks are rather blanched with the 'pale cast of thought,' for she
is not sufficiently initiated in the mysteries of steeple-chasing to know
that it is often quite as good for a man to lose as to win, which it had
just been quietly arranged between Sponge and Buckram should be the case on
this occasion, Buckram having got uncommonly 'well on' to the losing tune.
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