“It’s a good deal to all of us, for there are some funny stories about.” “You keep them to yourself, then, or you may wish you had never heard them.” “All right, Jem! Your breakfast don’t seem to have agreed with you this morning.” “Have the others arrived?” asked my uncle, carelessly. “Not yet, Sir Charles. But Tom Oliver is there with the ropes and stakes. Jackson drove by just now, and most of the ring-keepers are up.” “We have still an hour,” remarked my uncle, as he drove on. “It is possible that the others may be late, since they have to come from Reigate.” “You take it like a man, Tregellis,” said Craven. “We must keep a bold face and brazen it out until the last moment.” “Of course, sir,” cried Belcher. “I’ll never believe the betting would rise like that if somebody didn’t know something. We’ll hold on by our teeth and nails, Sir Charles, and see what comes of it.” We could hear a sound like the waves upon the beach, long before we came in sight of that mighty multitude, and then at last, on a sudden dip of the road, we saw it lying before us, a whirlpool of humanity with an open vortex in the centre. All round, the thousands of carriages and horses were dotted over the moor, and the slopes were gay with tents and booths. A spot had been chosen for the ring, where a great basin had been hollowed out in the ground, so that all round that natural amphitheatre a crowd of thirty thousand people could see very well what was going on in the centre. As we drove up a buzz of greeting came from the people upon the fringe which was nearest to us, spreading and spreading, until the whole multitude had joined in the acclamation. Then an instant later a second shout broke forth, beginning from the other side of the arena, and the faces which had been turned towards us whisked round, so that in a twinkling the whole foreground changed from white to dark. “It’s they. They are in time,” said my uncle and Craven together. Standing up on our curricle, we could see the cavalcade approaching over the Downs. In front came a huge yellow barouche, in which sat Sir Lothian Hume, Crab Wilson, and Captain Barclay, his trainer. The postillions were flying canary-yellow ribands from their caps, those being the colours under which Wilson was to fight. Behind the carriage there rode a hundred or more noblemen and gentlemen of the west country, and then a line of gigs, tilburies, and carriages wound away down the Grinstead road as far as our eyes could follow it. The big barouche came lumbering over the sward in our direction until Sir Lothian Hume caught sight of us, when he shouted to his postillions to pull up. “Good morning, Sir Charles,” said he, springing out of the carriage. “I thought I knew your scarlet curricle. We have an excellent morning for the battle.” My uncle bowed coldly, and made no answer. “I suppose that since we are all here we may begin at once,” said Sir Lothian, taking no notice of the other’s manner.