The time for the race having arrived, the young men mounted, some in red jackets, some in white, and others in full jockey attire. The clerk of the course ranged them all in proper order; eagerness was in every eye as they bent forward, impatient for the word. Ladies stood up in carriages, and many a neck was outstretched to catch a glimpse of the start: when at last a thundering “Ready,” “Off,” from the little mummified sergeant, and away flew the tattoos, “Punch,” “Cocktail,” and “Mat-o’-the-Mint,” and many a nameless steed besides. Such digging, spurring, and straining; such crossing and jostling as was there! one pushing ahead for a space, and then another passing him, and so on! When the whole troop had got about half-way round (it was a sweepstakes, round the course), the leading pony bolted, and was followed by all the rest, entering the gates leading to a bungalow, the first of a series there commencing; there they very deliberately drew up, where doubtless they had often drawn up before, when carrying their masters on their rounds of morning visits. Intense were the roars of laughter which issued from the spectators assembled, occasioned by this little episode. Haul, dig, pound, and spur, and they were again placed, and off—but ah! the unlucky fates! the meridian of another bungalow entrance no sooner reached, than away with them again, follow my leader, like a flock of sheep through a gap, or a string of wild geese. I thought verily I should have died outright, and as for honest Grundy, and many of my neighbours, they stamped and roared till the tears ran down their cheeks. All this time we could see, though the distance was considerable, that the jockeys were hard at work, getting their tattoos once more under weigh through the opposite segment of road leading from the attractive bungalow, the other horn, as it might have been termed, of the dilemma. The course regained, away they went once more: the struggle was becoming warm; they had turned the curve, and were in a line with the winning-post; bettors were now on the _qui vive_—“ten to one on Cocktail”—the little sergeant squatting bands on knees, taking a judgmatical observation, when lo! no sooner had they reached a certain bridge before mentioned, leading in a rectangular direction to cantonments, than away they sidled, and at last one and all made a fair bolt of it, right before the wind, for “home, sweet home.” “Zounds!” said the sergeant, “if they bea’nt all off agin, I’m a Dutchman.” And off sure enough they were, amidst renewed peals of laughter. I doubt if any race ever produced half the amusement. “They are gone, they are gone, and never will return.” This was literally the case with some; but several of the heavy sailers managed to tack, and came in amidst the half-mad shouts of unexpected winners, proving truly that “the race is not always to the swift,” and that the best-founded expectations may be unexpectedly disappointed.