Racing of some kind, good or bad as may happen, is carried on, not only at Newmarket, but at many other places all the year round. When flat-racing ceases, steeple-chasing follows, and proceeds till what is called "the legitimate season" begins; it occupies the period from about the end of March till the close of November. Hardened turfites, that is men who make racing and betting the business of their lives, long, it is said, in the early part of the year to hear the saddling-bell sound at Lincoln where the first meeting is held; and from that much-talked-of seat of sport they journey to Liverpool, and thence to Northampton and other seats of horse-racing, pursuing their business most industriously, shouting the state of the odds with stentorian lungs and booking no end of bets, for wherever half-a-dozen bookmakers assemble, there will also be found an army of bettors eager to take "the odds," some of them with "systems" by which they hope to make their fortunes; others, too, are there, who trust to luck, or the bringing off of an occasional good thing by means of a tip, which they may receive from some acquaintance or friend, or they put faith, perhaps, in the two horse or other wires of some brazen charlatan of the tipster tribe, of whom for the time they become victims. The Lincolnshire Handicap is the principal betting race of the springtime; many horses are usually selected by bettors to win that event, and one or two of the number will be heavily backed by men, who, in the end, may see all their cherished mind's eye visions vanish into thin air, as some quite unthought of outsider romps home an easy winner. The meeting held at Lincoln occupies three days, and before it concludes, some of the green hands, who have come on the racing scene as _débutants_, determined to give the ring a fright by backing many winners, will have made the old, old discovery over again that "all is not gold that glitters." New-made owners of horses, too, will have found out before the expiry of the three days, that men quite as clever as themselves are ready to fight every inch of the ground. "Keep thy head cool, lad," said, on one occasion, an old turfite to an irate young owner, who felt annoyed, or rather aggrieved, at his horse being placed second in a race which he fancied it had won, "you will get other chances for your horse; the season is but young, hide your feelings, you won't do much good at racing if you wear your heart on your sleeve."