Then they rope him and replace him in the cart. After that
they all drain their flasks, and consider themselves sportsmen. Poor
stuff, I think."
"Of course," said the Father, "you have nothing of that sort in
England."
[Illustration]
_Mr. Punch_ was about to reply when a well-appointed four-in-hand
drove up, and a courteous gentleman who handled the ribbons, offered
the two strangers seats.
"I will take you," he remarked, "to our great national race-meeting. I
assure you it is well worth seeing."
The offer was accepted. A pleasant drive brought them to the
race-course. To tell the truth it was much like most other
race-courses. A huge crowd was assembled, and the din of roaring
thousands filled the air. As they drove up a race had just started,
and it was pretty to see the flash of the coloured caps and jackets in
the sun. The horses came nearer and nearer. As they rounded the bend
which led into the straight run in, the excitement became almost
too great for Father TIME. A torrent of sporting phrases broke from
his lips. One after another he backed every horse on the card for
extravagant sums, and the bets were promptly, but methodically booked
by _Mr. Punch_. A handsome chestnut was leading by two good lengths,
and apparently going strong, but about a hundred yards from the post
he suddenly slowed down for some unaccountable reason.
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