Although Mr. Filbert tells us in a whisper that Tommy is only twelve next birth-day, Tommy looks as if he had entered far into his teens. His dress is deceptive. Light trowsers terminating in buttons, laced shoes, long striped waistcoat, a cut-away coat, a colored cravat, a collar to which juveniles aspire under the name of "stick-ups," and a Paris silk hat, form his equipment. "Let's see, Tommy; what stakes did you win last?" Tommy flicks, with the end of his whip-crop, a speck of dirt from the toe of his "off" shoe, and replies carelessly, "The Great Northamptonshire upon Valentine. But then, I have won a many smaller stakes, you know, Mr. Filbert." "Are there many jockeys so young as Tommy?" "Not many so young," says Tommy, tying a knot in his whip thong, "but a good many smaller." Tommy then walks across the straw-yard to speak to some stable friend he has come to see. Tommy has not only the appearance, but the manners of a man. "That boy will be worth money," says Mr. Filbert. "It is no uncommon thing for a master to give a lad like that a hundred pound when he wins a race. As he can't spend it in hard-bake, or ginger-beer, or marbles (the young rogue _does_, occasionally, get rid of a pound or two in cigars), he saves it. I have known a racing-stable lad begin the world at twenty, with from three to four thousand pound." Tommy is hopping back over the straw, as if he had forgotten something. "O, I beg your pardon for not asking before," he says, "but--how does Mrs. Filbert find herself?" "Quite well, thank you, Tommy." Tommy says he is glad to hear it, and walks off like a family-man. Our interview with Mr. Filbert is finished, and we pace toward the race-course with its indefatigable clerk. Presently, he points to a huge white object that rears its leaden roof on the apex of the highest of the "Downs." It is the Grand Stand. It is so extensive, so strong, and so complete, that it seems built for eternity, instead of for busy use during one day in the year, and for smaller requisitions during three others. Its stability is equal to St. Paul's, or the Memnonian Temple. Our astonishment, already excited, is increased when our cicerone tells us that he pays as rent and in subscriptions to stakes to be run for, nearly two thousand pounds per annum for that stand. Expecting an unusually great concourse of visitors this year, he has erected a new wing, extended the betting inclosure, and fitted up two apartments for the exclusive use of ladies.