The Honourable Crasher, with a large cigar in his mouth, is watching the proceedings vacantly, having to go through them in his turn; and a quiet, clean-shaved man, with a keen eye, who is prepared for the fray, but has wisely wrapped himself up once more in a long greatcoat, is busy with his betting-book. This worthy, who answers to the name of Stripes, has come a hundred miles to ride Mr. Savage’s bay horse Luxury. Judging from the use he makes of his pencil, he seems to think he has a good chance of coming in first. Already there has been a wrangle as to whether he is qualified to ride as a gentleman; but the only argument against his pretensions to that title being the superiority of his horsemanship, the objection has been suffered to fall through. The stewards will have an easier task than they expected. The race has not filled well, and will probably not produce half-a-dozen starters. As the Harborough tradespeople say, “It’s a poor affair.” Nevertheless, a deal of money has been wagered on it; and the devoted few are resolved to do their best. Under the lee of an outhouse—the only one, by the way, within a mile—old Isaac is walking Wood-Pigeon carefully up and down, with his usual imperturbable demeanour. It is hard to make out what he thinks of the whole affair—whether he esteems it an unheard-of piece of tomfoolery, or looks upon it as a means of making an addition to his yearly wages. Under either contingency, he has done his duty by Wood-Pigeon. Beneath all that clothing, the horse is as fine as a star; and even Mr. Varnish could not find fault with his condition. That worthy, however, is gone to ride a horse of Napoleon the Third’s, at Chantilly, and is supposed by his admirers to be staying with the Emperor at Compiègne, for the event. Mr. Tiptop and old Isaac are barely on speaking terms. Presently, a heavier shower than any of its predecessors sweeps across the scene; and the only steward who can be got to attend, not seeing the fun of waiting any longer, has given the gentlemen-riders a hint that, if they are not mounted and ready in ten minutes, he will go home to luncheon. The threat creates considerable confusion and dismay. “Lend me a fourteen-pound saddle!” exclaims one; “Where are my girths?” shouts another; “I can’t ride him without a martingale!” groans a third; “Where’s my whip? and has any one seen my horse?” asks a fourth: and, for a time, things look less like a start than before. Nevertheless, the steward is known to be a man of his word; and his announcement produces the desired effect at last. Let us take advantage of Parson Dove’s kind offer, and, placing ourselves on the box of his carriage, abstract our attention from his pretty daughter inside, and take a good view of the proceedings.