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.
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