himself like a rat; a man leads him back; and
—they're off! the Screw with two strides in one,
determined not to be disappointed this time.
The pace is awful as they sweep past the
stand, and the ladies wonder how any man can
keep his seat at such a pace, and are sure they
would scream, and drop off. But in the short
space of time taken to express this wonder the
horses have completed another quarter of a
mile, and the Screw, who is leading, is nearly
pulling his jockey over his head. With joy the
collector sees that Hawk is obliged to keep the
rajah's horse going, and, barring accidents, he
sees the race is won. He's not quite sure of his
jockey though, for he is a stranger to him, but
came with a great reputation; and the thought
of the steady way in which he tried to snatch
the last race out of the fire, partly reassures him.
They have now got to the hill, which is sure to
find out the soft ones. What a line there is
now! What tailing, almost Indian file. It can
hardly be called a good race, for nothing seems
to have a chance against the Screw. Nothing
has. The astounding fact of having been
stopped when he wanted to go, has put the
devil into the Screw, and if he drops dead in
the attempt, he'll warm them. His jockey gives
him a strong pull near the top of the hill, and
the cunning old horse responds to it wonderfully,
pulling himself together, and taking a breath
that fairly heaves his jockey's legs out. " That's
your sort, old chap," says the jock. "I like
to feel that, and I know you've got a rush left
in you, if wanted." On his dropping his hands
again, the Screw falls into his old Dumulgundy-like
action, holding the race as safe as a church.
Hawk tries a rush at the distance, but Hussar
only manages to decrease the distance from the
Screw by a length, then dies away to nothing,
and is passed by the judge's horse, but cannot
overhaul the Screw, who canters in, hands down,
a winner of upwards of two thousand rupees.

After the Young Prince's Purse, there are
only two races left for decision, and the
spectators (and I dare say my readers too) are
glad of it, for the day is getting excessively
warm. Some twenty animals of the most
wretched and unracer-like appearance are brought
out for the Hack Stakes. There are Roman-nosed
broken-kneed Persians, who do duty in
buggies during the rest of the year; hide-bound
animals, that have been cast from the
artillery and cavalry for incurable mange; one
or two bow-kneed but fine-framed old animals,
who (if they could speak) could tell pitiful tales
of the career of a high-mettled racer; and—yes.
—Budmash, mounted by Tomkins in a
resplendent green jacket, with yellow belt.
The race is soon over, for the starter did not
care to be kept broiling in the sun by the
unworkmanlike manoeuvres of the would-be
jockeys; and after one false start, in which a
hot-brained youth has come away the whole
length of the course alone in his glory, warns
the rest that, head or tail foremost, he WILL
start them this time. The horses run the
race from end to end without any assistance
from their riders, and it is won by a quondam
old racer, who adds another leaf to his
autumn-tinged laurels. The Pony Race is rather
exciting, the terms of the race being that the
second pony is to get a portion of the stakes,
and that the last is to pay the third pony's
entrance fee—a provision sure to make each
competitor try his best; for, although he may see
that he has no chance of obtaining first or second
honours, yet he cannot afford to pull up and
walk in, lest he should have to pay the entrance-fee
of the third. But hallo! who is this? It
is the doctor in a gaudy racing-jacket, a pair of
trousers with straps, and a long pair of military
spurs. He is greeted with roars of laughter as
he passes the stand, and cries of two to one on
the doctor. Then some one explains that, at
mess the other night, the doctor threw out
hints that he had had a rather brilliant career
on the English turf, before he entered the
service; whereupon Simpkins pounced upon him,
and succeeded in getting him to promise to ride
his pony. The course is only a quarter of a
mile, and they are soon started; they are all
pretty close together, with the exception of the
doctor, who got off ill in his endeavours to keep
his seat, pulls his pony back, and is hopelessly
out of the race. It is a near thing between the
two first, both well-known performers. Some
seconds after the race is finished, the doctor
canters past, and is greeted with vociferous
cheering. "Thank you, doctor," says the owner
of the third pony. "Why?" says the doctor.
"You pay my stake." The doctor is wroth, and
declares that he never saw that proviso, that it
is a most absurd one, and that he never heard of
it in England; but his wrath is of no avail, and
he goes off home in great dudgeon, and does not
appear again during the rest of the meeting. The
stand is soon emptied, and the great concourse
of natives go jabbering towards the bazaar.

The second and third days' racing are similar
to the first: the rajah and the collector
dividing the large prizes pretty equally; and
the smaller being so distributed by the aid of
handicaps, that none are great losers, and
many are slight winners. The owners of horses
are pleased with their success, and the visitors
with their reception, and the numerous balls
and pic-nics. Thus, "the races" become an
epoch from which future events will be
calculated, until the next meeting.

SKELETONS IN THE MANSION HOUSE.

IF little Dick Whittington, when sitting on
the stone at Highgate, listening to the bells
ringing him back to fortune and fame, could
have dreamt what it was to be Lord Mayor of
London, he might have hesitated as many times
as the bells promised him the highest civic
dignity before he decided upon obeying their
summons. Knowing what I do of the
hubble-bubble—not all of the turtle-soup pot—and toil
and trouble of a Lord Mayor's life, I am sure /
should have hesitated a long time, and, if I had
clearly understood the bells to say

"Thrice Lord Mayor of London,"