“Let I pick out ten or a dozen on ’em to run by theirselves.” The umpires proposed this to the rest, and, no one objecting, told Giles, the protester, to pick out the ten he was most afraid of. This Giles proceeded to do with a broad grin on his face, and generally seemed to make a good selection. But presently he arrived at, and after a short inspection passed over, a young fellow in his blue shirt-sleeves and a cloth cap, who to the umpire’s eye seemed a dangerous man. “Why, Giles,” said he, “you’re never going to pass him over?” “Auh, ees, Zur,” said Giles, “let he ’bide along wi’ we chaps. Dwont’ee zee, he’s a tipped and naayled ’un?” When Giles had finished his selection, the first lot were started, and made a grand race; which was won by a Hampshire man from Kingsclere, the second man, not two feet behind, being a young Wiltshire farmer, who, having never been beaten in his own neighbourhood, had come to lose his laurels honourably at the Scouring. The running in the second race was, of course, not so good, but much more amusing. The “tipped and naayled ’uns” were a rushing lot, but very bad at rising. Hurdle after hurdle went down before them with a crash, and the most wonderful summersaults were executed. The second hurdle finished poor Giles, who charged it manfully, and found himself the next moment on his broad back, gazing placidly up into the evening sky. The cloth cap, notwithstanding his shoes, went easily ahead, and won in a canter. I heard one of the umpires rallying Giles afterwards at his want of eyes. “Ees, Zur,” said Giles, hunching up his great shoulders, “I wur tuk in, zure enough. He wur a town chap, arter all, as wouldn’t ha’ knowed a piece o’ clumpers afore he cum across to White Hos Hill.” I left the umpires now to start the other races, and got back once again into the Castle. I was now beginning to get very tired in my legs, though not in my spirits, so I went and sat down outside the crowd, which was thicker than ever round the stage, for the ties were being played out. I could hear the umpires call every now and then for some gamester who was not forthcoming to play out his tie--“John Giles, if you beant on the stage in five minutes, to put to with James Higgins, you shall lose your head”--through all the cheers and shouts, which rose louder and louder now that every blow or trip might decide the prizes. And while I was sitting, the donkey races were run outside, and I heard were very good fun; especially the last one, in which no man rode his own donkey, and the last donkey had the prize. I hope my friend, the old suck-woman, entered neighbour Thorne’s beast, for if she did, I’ll be bound he carried off the prize for her. They were the only sports that I didn’t manage to see something of.