HAVE you ever seen at the beginning of a Great Law Case a certain hush and stir among the gentlemen of the long robe, and then a young man rise—not much over forty, that is—and inform “my lud” that his unfortunate client was placed at a sad disadvantage, for that, through the unexpected but unavoidable absence of his leader, the whole case must needs devolve upon his own (the junior's) shoulders? The circumstance is of course most lamentable, but still the young counsel (if he is worth a guinea fee) has a certain confident radiance about him, for he feels that his opportunity has come at last, and that he has but “to grasp the skirts of happy chance,” to be borne from that moment woolsackwards. So was it with Mr Samuel Hicks, horse-jockey unattached, when suddenly called upon to fill the vacant seat of Brother Withers, absent without leave. To ride a Derby at a moment's notice was, to one in his position, almost what to take the command of the Mediterranean squadron would be to a young gentleman at the naval school. But not a trace of indecision was visible on the young centaur's countenance.

“I will do my best, gentlemen,” said he modestly; then added, with the irrepressible assurance of his class, “and I think I know how to ride.”

“You know nothing, and are an infernal young fool,” returned the trainer sharply. “You never were outside of such a horse as Menelaus in your life. If he is in a good temper, a child might steer him; but if he jibs—if he stands stock-still in that great race an hour hence, as he is as like to do as not—what will you do then?”

“Bless my soul, sir,” cried the boy, his golden Future—not without “mother in a comfortable cottage, and easy for life,” let us hope, in the foreground—all swept away by this relentless prediction—“Bless my soul, sir, I think I should cut his throat.”

“I like this fellow,” cried Derrick, slapping the lad upon the back. “Look you, here is twenty pounds, which you may keep in any case, and you had better take it now, for if you lose the race, there will be plenty of folks to want all my money. But if you win, boy, I will make it Two Hundred.”

“And I will make it Four,” added Master Walter fervently.

“So, you see, you will be a made man for life,” remarked the trainer kindly. “But listen to me, Sam, or else all this glitter will be the merest moonshine. Be sure never touch your horse with whip or spur; for Withers, I have noticed, never did. But if the beast jibs—I saw Jack do this at the trial-race, and once before—snatch at his ear. There may be some secret in the way of handling it, but there is no time for finding that out. Do you twist it hard.”

“O sir, I'll twist it off, but he shall win,” returned the jockey plaintively; and off he went to don his new owner's colours—black and red—as proudly as an ensign to his first battle-field.

It had got about that there was some hitch about Menelaus, and the odds were rising rapidly against him; and when the large and somewhat ungainly animal took his preparatory canter in front of the stand under the guidance of the uncelebrated Hicks, they rose still higher. If any of his ancient confidence had remained to Captain Lisgard, he could scarcely have resisted the tempting offers that were being roared out in harsh and nasal tones from every quarter of the Ring.

“I'll lay 7 to 1 against Many Laws” (for most of the racing fraternity favoured Mr Derrick's pronunciation of that name); “I'll lay 8 to 1.”

“I'll take 4 to 1. I name the Winner” (for the relation between The King and the French horse in the betting was that of buckets in a well).

“I take odds that Menelaus is not placed,” exclaimed a shrill and sneering voice close beside where the two men most interested in that depreciated animal were standing.

“What odds will you take, my Lord?” inquired Captain Lisgard, biting his lip in wrath, for it was Lord Stonart who was offering them, the man whose confidential agent had been talking with Blanquette, and to whose machinations it was almost certainly owing that Menelaus had lost his rider.

“Ah, Lisgard, how are you?” returned he coolly. “How came it that I missed you just now in the Paddock? Haven't seen you since that morning on Mirk Down. So we're going to try that race over again, eh?”

“I think you were asking for odds, my Lord, about the black horse being placed?” rejoined the captain, pale with passion at the sarcasm that lurked in the other's tone.

“Yes, so I was. There has something gone amiss, they say, with him. I'll take 4 to 1 in fifties—hundreds, if you like.”

“Don't do it,” whispered Derrick eagerly. “Don't you see what the scoundrel reckons upon? If the horse runs straight, he will win the race, but if he jibs, he will be nowhere. He is therefore taking odds where he ought to give them.”

“You don't take me, eh?” continued his Lordship. “Well, I think your friend advises you wisely. See, the horses are moving towards the hill Like myself, you have no stall, I conclude. Where are you going to place yourself? I think I shall remain below here on the green.”

“Then I shall see the race from the roof my Lord,” answered the captain savagely, and thither he and his companion betook themselves accordingly.

To look down from that elevation upon Epsom Downs just before the start for the Great Race, is to behold a wondrous spectacle. Men—a quarter of a million or so—as black and thick as bees, and emitting much such a hum and clangour as attends the swarming of those perilous insects; and the carriages, twelve deep—dwarfed to much the same proportions as those chariots which used to be dragged in public by the Industrious Fleas. But raise your race-glass, and with a single sweep you survey every social degree of human life; from the duchess to the poor drunken hag on the look-out for empty bottles; from the peer to the ragged thief who bides his moment to snatch his booty from his Lordship's carriage-seat. This rascal's opportunity is coming. If there are five minutes in an Englishman's life in which he is indifferent to the preservation of his property, it is those five which are now at hand when that little jockey rainbow yonder is gathering on the hill. Thirty of the fleetest horses in the world are about to contend for the greatest prize that horse can win: it is not that circumstance, however, which makes so many hearts go pit-a-pat, keeps all lips sealed, and rivets every eye, except that of the pickpocket and his natural enemy the policeman, upon that shifting speck of colour. All are aware of the enormous interests that hang upon the result impending, even if they have none themselves; vague hut gigantic shadows of loss and gain forecast themselves upon every mind. In a few seconds more, certain unknown scoundrels—fellow-creatures, however, with whom we have indissoluble sympathies—will be enriched beyond the dreams of avarice; and certain other poor devils will be ruined. A solemn hush pervades all Pandemonium. The very organ-grinders cease their hateful discord; the vendors of race-cards give their lungs brief respite; the proprietors of Aunt Sallies intermit their useless cry of “Three throws a penny,” and stand on tiptoe, with their fasces beneath their arms, as eager as my Lord who totters insecure erect upon the front seat of his drag. Nervous folks see all these things because they cannot keep their eyes fixed where they would. A sudden roar breaks forth, not in the least like human speech, but it means that They are Off!

“Are they off, Ralph?” inquires Master Walter of his companion, “or is it a lie?” His small and well-gloved hand is trembling so, that his race-glass gives him views like a kaleidoscope. Splendour or Penury—nay, worse, or Shame await him, and are at the threshold. He knows not yet the foot of which it is that draws so nigh; and he dares not look forth to see.

“They are not off yet, lad,” returned Ralph; and even he has to swallow something which appears to be in his throat, but is not, before he can give that assurance.

Master Walter draws a long breath, for this is a reprieve, and endeavours once more to fix his eyes upon the dancing horses; but it is the retina of the mind only which presents its image. He beholds his mother's face, paler and more careworn than ever, sharpened with pain, through something which she has learned since——

“They're off! they're off!” is again the cry; and this time the great plane of faces shifts and flashes as it follows the speck of colour now in rapid motion—at first, a double line, next a lengthening oval, and then a string of brilliants, knotted here and there. As they approach Tatten-ham Corner, Walter perceives, for the first time, that they are horses, and that three are leading all the rest—Green, Black, and Yellow. The chances are then but two to one against him. How they lag and crawl, these vaunted coursers of the air! How long is this frightful suspense to last? “The Yellow's beat—Mica is out of it—the Black wins—the favourite is beaten, blast him!—Menelaus wins”——There is a thunder of hoofs, a flash of Black and Green, then a cry such as, even on Epsom Downs, was never before heard. “By Heaven, he's off! The boy is killed! Was it short of the post? What number's up? The Green has won. The King, The King! Hurrah, hurrah!” And so the babblement breaks forth again, and the tumultuous crowd flows in like water upon the fair green course, save one small space of it kept clear by men with staves, where lies a poor whitefaced jockey, senseless and motionless, for whose misfortune everybody is sorry, but especially those who have backed the Black.

All had gone well with the French horse until within a few strides of the winning-post; he was leading by half a length, and his victory seemed certain to all eyes, when suddenly—whether through the devilish nature of the beast, or whether poor Sam had touched him with the heel in that overwhelming crisis, can never now be known—but he stopped stock-still, and shot his rider (snatching at his ear as he flew by) a dozen yards like cricket-ball from catapult. The uncelebrated Hicks had actually preceded the rival jockey at the post, but left his horse behind him; and there the beast was standing yet, with his fore-feet planted resolutely before him, and his untwisted ears laid level with his neck, as though he was giving “a hack” at leap-frog.

“Come down, and let us get away from this, lad,” broke forth Derrick impatiently: “it is no use waiting here.”

“It is no use waiting here,” echoed the young man mechanically, as he followed his friend through the fast-thinning crowd down to the basement story.

At the foot of the staircase they met Mr Chifney, looking very white and disconcerted. He, too, had put more trust than he was wont to place in horses in Menelaus, and had suffered in consequence; and the wily trainer was not used to losses.

“How is the boy?” inquired Derrick.

“Bad, sir, bad: it is a bad business altogether,” muttered the man of horseflesh, not perhaps wholly thinking of the boy.

“It was not his fault, however,” continued Ralph. “No man could have kept his seat during such a devil's trick. Look you, let him have all he requires; everything. I will be responsible.”

Mr Chifney had expected from this stormy client some terrible outbreak of wrath and disappointment; and lo, he was all benevolence and charity! His astonishment exhibited itself significantly enough in his face; but Ralph mistook the cause.

“Why do you stare so, sir? I suppose I am good for a few pounds yet. The horse is mine; and I apprehend will be security enough; though I wish I could afford to shoot him—cursed beast! Where is Lord Stonart?”

“A Great Personage has, I have heard, just sent for him, to offer his congratulations.”

Ralph Derrick uttered a harsh and bitter laugh. “I suppose we couldn't see this interesting interview, eh?”

“Certainly not, sir,” replied the trainer hurriedly, alarmed by Derrick's tone and air. “I hope you are not thinking of putting us all in the wrong by any act of violence?”

“Well, no; I thought of conferring the honour of knighthood upon his Lordship with a horsewhip—that's all.”

“Take him away,” whispered the trainer to Master Walter; “for Heaven's sake, take him home.”

“Yes, home. Come home, Ralph,” repeated the young man, like one in a dream.

“Ha, Lisgard, how goes it?” drawled Captain Wobegon, sauntering slowly up to where the three were standing. “I hope you recouped yourself for last night's misfortunes by The King just now. Devilish near thing, though. The Frenchman did win by a head, but luckily it was the boy's, and not his own.”

“I backed the wrong horse,” returned Master Walter gloomily. “And I owe you—how much is it?”

“A little over fourteen hundred. If it's any convenience to you, I can wait a fortnight or so; I would say longer—but Lurline—she was inquiring after you, only yesterday, by the by; I felt quite jealous—has a soul above economy. And after the Derby, you know, folks send in their bills; especially jewellers. They know if they are not paid then, it's a bad look-out. What a lot that fellow Stonart must have netted! I'm sorry to see you so down in the mouth; you used to be such a lucky fellow.”

“Used to be such a lucky fellow,” mused Master Walter, as he and his companion made their way to the outskirts of the heath, where a place had been appointed at which their Hansom was to wait for them. “Yes, so I was. I used to win in a small way, and yet people were always glad to see me. They won't be so pleasant, I reckon, when they find that I am a defaulter. I can't get at any money for a year, and who 'll wait a year without making a row? Even if they do, mine will be a fine coming of age. How could I have been such a frightful fool?”

“Tell your fortune, my pretty gentleman,” observed a gipsy girl, laying her walnut-coloured fingers upon the young man's coat-sleeve. “You are born under a lucky star.”

“I may have been born there; but I have wandered far away from its influence,” replied Master Walter, shaking her hand off somewhat roughly. “If you want a shilling, you shall have it; for I have nothing but other people's money about me, and that one always parts with very readily. But don't call me lucky, for that's a lie, you jade.”

“Bless your handsome face,” returned the gipsy humbly, “it's a shame that it ever should be crossed by the shadow of sorrow. You can't be unlucky, sir, with eyes like yours—especially,” added she, as the two strode hastily away, “especially among the ladies.”

“Do you hear that, lad?” laughed Derrick encouragingly; but the young man was too wrapt up in his own sombre thoughts to heed such things.

“I must sell out,” muttered he to himself; “that's the first thing. And I must run down to Mirk; there is no knowing what that spitfire there may do else.”

“Here's our Hansom, and the fellow not drunk for a wonder!” exclaimed Derrick. “Where's the horse, man?”

“In this next booth, sir,” returned the driver. “I will put him to in no time.—I am afraid your honours have not won.”

“See, Walter, lad,” cried Derrick in remonstrance; “that's your fault. Don't hang out such signals of distress that everybody who meets us offers their confounded pity. Be a man, lad; be a man. Besides, what did that gipsy girl say just now? Many a wise word is spoken in jest. She said, with your good looks, that you must needs he lucky with the women. I should like to see the heiress who would say 'No' to Captain Walter Lisgard. A good marriage would mend all this, and”——

“Go to the devil!” exclaimed the young man passionately.

“You are out of temper, lad,” returned the other gravely; “but don't say those sort of things to me, for I have not deserved them.”

“Not deserved them! you have been my ruin, curse you!” continued the other with vehemence. “But for you, you drunken”——

“Take you care, Walter Lisgard!” roared the bearded man in a voice of thunder. “Do not make me strike you, for I would as soon strike my son. How can all this be my fault? Do you suppose that I have not lost also—almost all I have in the world save a few hundreds?”

“Ay, mine, I suppose,” exclaimed Walter bitterly. “I know I owe you a thousand pounds.”

“Yes,” returned the other, producing his pocket-book, “here are three I.O.U.s bearing your signature, for two, three, and five hundred pounds.”

“You shall be paid, sir, never fear,” rejoined the young man insolently. “No man but you, however, would have produced them at such a time. But it serves me right for herding with such people.”

“Thank you, young man. At the same time, few of your fine gentlemen would treat them this way.” Thus saying, he tore them into little strips, and scattered them to the wind.—“All I ask, by way of repayment, now is, that you will listen to a few words I have to say. I have loved you, Walter Lisgard, in spite of yourself, and would have laid down my life for yours. I have concealed from my own heart as well as I could the selfish baseness that underlies your every act—but that is over now. Look you, on the coasts where I have come from, there is many a bay which, if you saw it at high tide, you would say: 'What a beautiful harbour! what smooth and smiling water! This is a place for all men to cast anchor.' But when the tide is going out, you see how you have been deceived. Here is a reef that would wreck a navy; here is a jagged and cruel rock, and there another and another. With every one, you say to yourself, surely this is the last. But for this and for that, there was never a better anchorage; and how beautiful the place is! What luxuriant foliage—what exquisite verdure fringes the shore—just the shores, you know. But when the tide is quite out, it is impossible to like the place any longer. There are nothing but reefs and rocks to be seen then, and a few loathsome reptiles among the slime. Now, Walter Lisgard, I have come upon you at dead low-water, and I don't wish to meet you any more. You will deceive others, of course, who may see you at the flow, but you will never deceive me. I shall go down to Mirk, after a little, to bring away my wife. Take my advice, and don't be there. Above all things, see that your mother does not cross me in that matter, or it will be worse for all concerned. I have nobody now in the world who cares for me save Mary Forest, and they shall not rob me of her. Here is the Hansom in which we can no longer sit together. You are not used to walking, being what is called a gentleman, so you had better take it. All I ask you is, to leave our lodgings before I reach them, since you will arrive there first; or if not—I will take myself off elsewhere; I should be sorry to be under the same roof, with you again, young man.”

Then pulling his hat forward upon his brow, in place of farewell, Ralph Derrick turned his back upon Walter Lisgard, and took his way to town on foot. As the captain, sitting alone in no very enviable frame of mind, passed him afterwards upon the road, he could not help remarking to himself how old and bowed the insolent fellow looked.