to the affliction called delirium tremens.) "If
it's that" said Mr. Madden, lifting his wine-
glass half way in the air, "there's as much
chance as—" And he engulphed the
remainder of the sentence with the liquor. But
still, with all these doubts and misgivings, "J.
Madden, Esq.," good naturedly "took" any offers
that were laid against "Brent's horse," just, as
he said, to keep the thing going.

Just at midnight a despatch was brought in
and given to "J. Madden, Esq." He read it.
"By Jove!" he said, striking the table, "was
there ever anything—What did I tell ye?
'Tis from Cox," added he, looking at the envelope
in a ruminative way. "Cox is Brent's friend."

"Well?" said all the boys and men together.

"Well! Brent can't come. The old tricks, as
I said. But Cox says, 'We must put some one
on his back;' and, by the Lord, some one must be
got," added Mr. Madden, rising in some excitement.
"I tell ye, we must get some one."

"Ah! but that's just it!" said white-haired
Young Brett. "Such a wild brute as that!"

"Not he," said J. Madden, Esq. "There's a
way with him. I know it, and Brent's groom
knows it. But is there a fellow among ye! By
Jove! we must have some one. The horse must
start."

Hanbury had been drinking some of the punch
—from curiosity—in a sort of pottering fiddling
way. He was a little excited—with talking,
and talking loud above the others, and with,
perhaps, some of the punch. Some days before,
Fermor had said to himself, "I must keep this
fellow at a distance," had taken out a new manner
from his bag of properties and had fitted it on—
one cold and formal, but polite to a nicety. This
honest John Hanbury resented and fretted
against.

"We are all of us booked," he said, "for
something or other. We are all in to break our
necks except—"

"Except Fermor there," said Thersites.
"Hang it, man, why don't you side with somebody
or something? You never seem to me to
do anything! Why don't you take a side?"

"For many reasons," said Fermor, sipping
claret, "too long to enter on here. I have no
horse to ride, nor do I want to."

White-haired Young Brett laughed, a little
foolishly. He, too, had relished that punch.
"Hurt your leg, eh? Ha! ha!"

John Hanbury, who had a laugh always as it
were on a hair-trigger, could not restrain another
burst. Fermor's lip began to curl. J. Madden,
Esq., struck in suddenly. "Beg pardon," he said;
"I know what's in a man or a horse. No case of
sore leg." Then, with great respect, "Seen you,
Captain Fermor, I am sure, with the Crowther
hounds."

"Yes!" said Fermor, a little astonished.

"Recollect the day Lord Tiptree broke his
leg? You and three others in at the finish. How
many miles was it—thirty-two?"

"Thirty-four," said Fermor, suddenly lifted
out of his ice-pail. "How well you recollect!
Horse died of it, though."

"Ah!" said the other, "no case of hurt legs
there. By the Lord, sir, you are the man for
Brent's horse! I know your style as if I saw it
yesterday. I saw you take the ditch and the
heap of stones. Yours is the hand for him, sir.
You'll sit him, sir, by——"

Mr. Madden had risen in his enthusiasm, and
even pushed his tumbler into the middle of the
table. The children's faces were all turned
to Fermor. He sat with a calm but gratified
smile, caught at the claret jug, and, with a gush,
filled his glass leisurely. "I am very sorry," he
said. "I can't—the time is so short—and—-"

"Not a bit," said J. Madden, Esq.

"Pray allow me to finish," said Fermor, with
great politeness; "and there are little matters
about weight, dress, and the like. I am afraid
it's out of the question."

John Hanbury laughed.

"I was afraid so all along," said Captain
Thersites, insolently.

"But," said Fermor, slowly, and measuring
him curiously, as though he were a preserved
specimen in a jar, pushing back his chair and
rising, "I'll not make difficulties."

"What? Then you'll ride?" said J. Madden,
Esq., with something like a shout.

"I suppose so—I think so—well, yes," said
Fermor, deliberately. It was quite an opening
for true unflushed gentlemanly bearing. "Come
to me at six to-morrow. We'll go out and look
at the ground. Madden, get the colours altered.
I have a jacket of my own somewhere—I always
ride in mauve. Mind, six. Good night, Mr.
Hanbury."

Thersites looked after him with amazement.

"He'll do," said Mr. Madden, in delight.
"Do better than Brent, I can tell you. Was
there ever such luck!"

Honest John Hanbury, however, kept looking
steadfastly at the door by which Fermor had
passed out, as if he could not quite understand.
Perhaps it had begun to strike him that this
was to be something more than a mere race
between two strong horses.

CHAPTER VIII. THE RACE.

IT was a bright and fresh day, and the sun
coloured up the acres of faded hair trunks that
spread over the race-ground, with such good
effect that it really presented all the air of respectable
and legitimate verdure. The crowd had
poured out over those mangy downs; the whole
fleet of sepia-coloured sails had spread itself
on the horizon. The business and bustle was
surprising. Some one had been sowing racing
dragons' teeth, and they had come up a soiled,
tarnished, noisy, glib miscellany—one that was
at work ceaselessly with arms and hands, and
a very hoarse voice, making ceaseless invitation.
A miscellany that declaimed noisily over
carts of stone ginger-beer bottles, that cowered