It is the day after the running for the Northumberland Plate, and a man about thirty-five years of age has just laid down a paper where he has read, not for the first time, how that the morning opened unfavourably at Newcastle, the rain pouring steadily down, and how the sporting fraternity grew despondent in consequence; how deserted the Newcastle streets were, when upon every previous Plate-day they had been crowded with betting men; how the weather took a better turn about noon, and hope revived in the ardent breasts of the men who laid the odds and the dupes who took them; how the special trains from Northumberland and Durham began to arrive with eager excursionists, and matters began to look brighter; how all considerations of the weather, and every other consideration whatsoever, paled to insignificance before the news that a noble sportsman had insisted that Christopher Sly, the sensational animal of the day, who had been backed for pounds, shillings, and pence, should carry a ten pound penalty for winning another race a short time since; how the question was discussed and what excitement it caused, those who had backed the horse trembling in their shoes lest they should be "done" out of their soon-to-be winnings at the last moment; how the stewards were unable to decide the point before the race, and how the horse declined in the betting from 6 to 4 to 2 to 1, still being first favourite however; how eight runners came to the starting-post, Christopher Sly being one and looking as fresh as paint; how, after two or three false starts, the horses were fairly slipped; how, soon afterwards, Christopher Sly threw his jockey clean over his head, and then tumbled down and rolled over the lad, who was carried off the field in an insensible state; and how, after some other slight mishaps, an old horse, Taraban by name, came in the winner, to the discomfiture of more persons than one, and to the utter confusion, and if they have any shame in them (which may be reasonably doubted), of every prophet and tipster in the United Kingdom. All this and more the occupant of the room reads with exceeding relish, slapping his thigh and rubbing his knees in delight, as if it is the finest joke he had ever heard of. "Not one of 'm thought of Taraban," he exclaims; "not one. What a sell for the talent!"