"But the horses are now paraded in the paddock, and we must go and inspect them. This is an Arab race, and all sorts of conditions of men and horses are in the ring, and a terrific hubbub is going on. Some of the ponies are well groomed, and fit, others thin and badly cared for. Some have long unkempt manes and tails, others are bedecked with beads and shells and long scarlet tassels. Saddle cloths of brilliant hue are numerous, while the riders are a curious and a motley assembly. Some bare-foot, some booted and spurred (and a spur is a spur with an Arab, something after the implement mother marks the pastry with). Others are in long flowing robes with the burnous and kafeia of the Bedouin flying in the wind, some with knives, some with swords, some with pistols, and some with sticks, and lastly two are dressed like real jockeys, and they know it, and show it too! Just now there is a little of chaos as half the competitors are evidently of the opinion that they should go round the paddock in one direction, while the other half wishes to go the reverse. Wherefore there is loud shouting and much gesticulating, with many 'Waheds' and 'Achmeds' and 'Macknoons'. "ALL THE WORLD AND HIS WIFE THERE. "But there, the bell goes, and the starters begin to file out of the gate as they struggle out of the seething mass. Away down the course to the starting point; and here the starter will no doubt have his work cut out. A variegated crowd is lining the rails on the opposite side of the track. Turbaned Abduls and Yussefs, boys and little girls, men and donkeys, fruit-sellers, arabiyehs, camels, all in brightest colours and a pandemonium of noise. Stray pi-dogs are continually being warned off the course, and venerable Arab Sheiks who don't understand, and start for a nice walk along the wide grass track. Yes, there is plenty for the smart military policemen to do, and their burnished swords and bright shoulder epaulets flash in the sun as they 'chivvy' the crowd out of danger. In the officers' enclosure there are many strange types. Abdul Achmed Yussef is there with a scimitar in one hand like the Sultan of Turkey, and a huge white umbrella in the other hand, and on his head he wears a red tarbush. _Iskanderianabedian_ is there with his fat wife, and two fat daughters, all the latter in black silk gowns and white silk stockings, and if the girls' ankles aren't as thick as my calves, call me a liar, but this is the Turkish style of beauty you know. The better bred the fatter is their standard, and very nice too. Arab troops and Arab gendarmerie in their quaint spiked head-gear; while hundreds of British staff officers (where they come from, or what they do I don't know), with tabs of all