where the swells were, having, after his winnings on Never Despair, paid for that privilege; and as he laughed now, he heard, "I'll take a thousand to thirty." "I'll give it to you," was the answer of a bookmaker; "a thousand to thirty against the Cunning One!" Turning, Alfred saw the man who had taken the bet, a tall, thin, languid swell, who drawled his words out as if speaking were a labour. A thick moustache covered his lips, or something might have been seen in the expression on them that would have given the lie to his apparently unconcerned and drawling manner. "There's thirty pounds clean thrown away," thought Alfred, with a look of contempt at the languid swell; "a nice fly chap he is to back such a horse as the Cunning One. It's only fit for a scavenger's cart." Away went the horses to the starting-post; there was a difficulty in getting a fair start, each jockey trying to "jockey" the others. Full twenty minutes elapsed, the while a very Babel of sound, created by the hoarse strong voices of the betting men, kept the fever of excitement to boiling-point. Again and again the cry "They're off!" was raised, and again and again came the mild addendum, "No; another false start." During this time Alfred heard nothing, saw nothing but the horses; he had staked his all upon Don't Touch Me, and it was upon that horse of all of them that he fixed his attention. The jockey's colours were pink; those of the jockey of the Cunning One were saffron. Alfred noticed that both these horses were kept comparatively cool and quiet by their riders while the false starts were being made. This was all in Alfred's favour, and he remarked it with satisfaction, and said, "It's all right, it's all right! Don't Touch Me is sure of the race." But his face was pale with suffering, notwithstanding. How he wished it was all over! "I won't put another shilling on," he said. "When the race is over, I'll go straight home." At length the horses were coming together, and a straight line of variegated colour was seen. "It will be a start this time," said some one, and the next moment the flag dropped again, and, "They're off! They're off!" burst from a thousand throats. Before the horses had gone a hundred yards Alfred saw the pink jacket of Don't Touch Me and the saffron jacket of the Cunning One in the rear. "All the better," he thought; for it was a two-mile race, and it was good policy to save the wind of the horses that were intended to win until the final struggle. On they came, rushing like the wind past the grand stand, and although no great distance separated them, saffron and pink were the absolute last. The race was being run at a great pace. Alfred was ablaze with excitement. The horses were lost for a few moments behind a great clump of bush on the other side of the course, and when they reappeared the aspect of affairs was changed. The horse that had made the running had dropped behind, and one or two others also were