“That there ’oss’ll overrun ’isself,” said Figgins to Mr. Waddy’s Bowery Boy, with whom he had bets on Pallid, money up. “’E’ll make a four-mile ’eat hout of hevery mile ’eat.” “Gaaz, Johnny Bull!” returned the Bowery. “Thar ain’t no hoss in a hide as kin git away from Mr. Blinders. It caan’t be did. He’s one er the bohoys, he is.” Bob O’Link’s horse was a mare. The sentimental fellow had named her Lalla Rookh. She was a delicate beauty, but it was quite evident that her master would not give himself the trouble to win. Scalper was so busy caricaturing Billy Dulger that he was near forgetting to present himself with Gossoon. Little Skibbereen recalled him to his duty. Skibby wanted to see his horse go, and could hardly forgive his mamma for keeping him at her side. “Why shouldn’t I break my neck, ma, if I like?” he protested. “I’ll go and break it the day I’m twenty-one and leave my property to the Tract Society.” Sir Com Ambient said good-naturedly that he merely started to make one more in the field. This was clear to the observing eye. Billy Dulger, having achieved his heart’s desire, rode up very unwillingly. The bookkeeper had sent him on garments much too refulgent for this, or any occasion. He was rather conspicuous _per se_ as the Great Accepted of Miss Center. The Billy-dulgerid epic, having already been brought to its finale, nothing more need be said of its hero’s performances in the race, except that his horse did not disappoint the stableman, his owner; did not win a heat; did not start a second time; and that Billy’s hair was full of sand for several days after this eventful one. Preparations are of years, acts of moments. To run a mile takes a minute and so many seconds, disappointingly brief. Poor, dissolute Tim Budlong, over-fortified by drink, struck Drummer viciously at starting. Drummer shied toward the water and Tim went over his head. Sobered by the plunge, Timothy mounted the horse, which someone caught, and disappeared homeward, fully ashamed of himself. In a minute and so many seconds, a hurrah came down the wind. Blinders had won; Pallid second; Knockknees third. “All right next time,” telegraphed Figgins to his master. Sir Comeguys had saved his distance handsomely and now withdrew. Time was about to be called again. Where was Blinders? At last he reappeared. Nosegay had gone on indefinitely and was at last, with difficulty, persuaded to return. Off they all go once more. The ladies at the upper end are almost terrified at this assault of cavalry. So even seems the front of charge that all are deemed winners; but the judges announce Pallid first; Knockknees second; Nosegay third--all very close running.