Winkle, wooden shutters being interposed, so as to leave a prospect of the celestial regions only.

Alas! poor Van Dunk, thought we, hast thou no Model Prison philanthropists in thy native land to make a beautiful case of No. 27, and ask him how he finds himself to-day, and if he's quite com'fortable?' no admiring Creakle to inquire into the quality of the cocoa, and glow with indignation because the beef was tougher yesterday than 27 could wish. From the look of the place I should suspect that the Van Winkles have not yet arrived at our pitch of refinement, and reserve their tender interest for honest men rather than rogues. However, we pass under the gateway, and before us is the chief street of the town, snoozing in the sunshine.

'I gaze upon a city, a city new and strange;

Down many a wat'ry vista my fancy takes a range;
From side to side I saunter, and wonder can it be,
That you are far, so far away, and I in Zeirikzee.'

A broad canal, a row of trees on each side, and a perspective of quaint old houses of all sorts and sizes, some covered with curious carving, present themselves before us. On one mansion the sporting tendencies of the proprietor had illustrated a boar hunt; on another the Old Testament is extensively displayed; King Nebuchadnezzar, with a large kitchen poker in his hand, is in the politest manner calling the attention of three gentlemen in court suits to the door of a (Dutch) oven, into which two of them are looking doubtfully, whilst the third seems to remonstrate on the smallness of the accommodation required by themselves and the company they expected. I longed to walk into the halls of the old mansions and take a survey of their carved oak, and into their gardens to discuss the merits of tulip beds.

We strolled on to the market-house, and from a sunny bench, surveying the people with the eye of a costumier, convinced ourselves of the fact that in these regions dress improvers' are not required by either sex, Nature having bounteously supplied that hiatus or deficiency which other less favoured nations have to make up by artificial means.

Dinner over, and our plans for the morrow discussed, we make our beds and turn in. At dawn we have the pleasure of finding an intensely blue sky and a gale of wind roaring through the rigging, which renders Klein and Kauffman rebellious as to getting under weigh; strong language, however, produces the desired effect, and after breakfast we find ourselves running down to our ground of Saturday, followed by an uncomfortable sea. Kauffman did not seem to relish running down so far to leeward of his beloved harbour, and a large lot of fowl being huddled together on the weather shore, he suggests anchoring abreast of them and waiting for the wind to lull. We accordingly round to and down anchor. The longer we wait, however, the harder it blows, and at last Fountaine, rather than do nothing, determines to put off and try his luck. The punt is lowered, and considerable activity is required

to prevent her from being swamped or stove in alongside. Your journalist declines to be of the party in the punt, as he perceives that we have run a trifle too far to leeward, and he doubts the practicability of rowing or punting up to windward without swamping the boat, and were he manager instead of spectator, he would have up anchor and beat back a quarter of a mile before he put off, then by taking a slant of the wind and tide he would have come on shore just to leeward of the birds without an exertion. As it was, though Klein rowed his best, they got to shore too far to leeward, and had to pole up through a heavy sea, which nearly filled the boat, and drove them on the sand, whereon the ducks absconded, and they returned very wet and discomfited. Tide turning, we beat back again, and ensconced ourselves in our harbour, sufficiently far from the breakers to avoid the rolling which Dutch vessels are famous for, and which requires a strong stomach to withstand.

So far the expedition had been anything but a blaze of triumph, but the morrow was destined to be a day of success to your historiographer-a day to be marked with a white stone in the record of his sporting adventures, which he purposes giving some account of his doings in the next issue of Baily.'

(To be continued.)

JACK BLAKE; OR, LANDED AT LAST.

CHAPTER VI.

'THEY'RE Off!' Those significant words almost stop the beating hearts of thousands; the wretched murderer in the dock, as he hears the fatal 'guilty,' can hardly be more lifeless than hundreds are when that one sentence, 'They're off!' reaches their ears; frequently their all, their future hopes and happiness, depending on the horse they have so recklessly backed.

Oh, that he may catch the judge's eye; if not there,' his number hoisted on the telegraph, ruin and starvation must be their future lot, their children and families plunged in wretchedness and misery because those who should have protected them wildly squandered away their maintenance.

The city clerk, on his miserable stipend, with a widowed mother or orphaned sister to provide for, fidgets uneasily on his high stool, dreading the day; others, who have filched from their employers, with the intention of replacing the small loan,' should their spec turn up trumps, never thinking that they have committed a robbery, that disgrace and imprisonment must be their lot if discovered. How many thousands in this little island of ours bet who have not the means to pay, never heeding the old adage, That those who cannot afford to lose, cannot afford to win;' that the poor, or those with limited means, cannot do as their richer neighbours.

The fatal mania for betting attacks now, and has for years, all classes, from the butler who purloins his master's spoons to meet his engagements, to the nobleman who does a bit of stiff,' or pulls up his carriage in the Strand, and sneaks into A.'s to pawn the family plate or his wife's diamonds.

Commissioners have made fortunes by the confiding credulity of thousands, countless thousands of victims, who knew as much about horses or betting as the Man in the Moon.'

I have no objection to the merry halfcrown sweep,' or even two or three tenners from those to whom it is of no consequence; but to think that men in this our nineteenth century should be mad enough to risk the fabulous sums they do, passes my poor comprehension.

They're off!' Those magic words! plates are dropped, wine glasses are discarded. Lord Verdant Green throws away his just lighted two-shilling regalia, and Nobby Clark, the celebrated magsman, taking advantage of the excitement of the moment, eases Sir Noodle Muffington of his purse and wipe' at the same time; whilst a worthy squire from the Shires, in his anxiety to get to the ropes, finds he is minus the old family repeater.

On the downs, those glorious downs, all this goes on, and much

more.

'They're off!' The Ethiopian serenaders stop the bones and banjo. The dark-eyed, brown-skinned gipsy discontinues her unceasing demand of Spare a bit of silver, my beautiful lady, to the poor gipsy. Tell your fortune, my noble gentleman?' Aunt Sally is deserted, and eighteen sticks a-penny is at a discount. The athletes and jugglers stop their antics; all turn out from the show booths in their tawdry and dirty finery; and even the giant condescends from behind his curtain to take a peep at the great race.

The tops of the drags swarm with men; thousands upon thousands have their eyes turned in the same direction, where they can first catch a glimpse of the gay and different-coloured caps appearing up the hill.

Epsom Downs have a great deal to answer for. Large and colossal fortunes have been made and lost there. Many a ruined gambler has taken his departure from them in agony and despair, and in the lonely solitude of his chamber destroyed that life God gave him by the pistol or poison; others, made of sterner stuff, rush to foreign lands, to bury their vain regrets far away from home and friends, unknown and uncared for, eking out a miserable existence by 'rattling the bones at the tables, or drown remembrance and dull care by constant applications to the spirit flask, and in daily dread of a continental prison, from expected remittances long overdue not having come to hand

'So poverty at home, and debts abroad,

My present fortune bad, my hopes yet worse,

What will become of me?"

'They're off!' Yes, they were off. How anxiously did all the

Blake family strain their eyes towards the Bushes, to catch a glimpse of the scarlet and black jacket and cap that Ned Stockman had donned that afternoon, to ride the favourite for the blue ribbon of the Turf.' Two false starts had been made; but Oats was as quiet as a lamb, as was also his stable companion Tearaway, in the same colours. last a mass of horsemen galloping recklessly across the downs announce the great race has commenced in earnest.

At

Straining, eager eyes everywhere, except those gentlemen whose gooseberry-looking orbs had been dimmed by the gooseberry wine they had been imbibing under the name of champagne, who vacantly ask, 'What was up? What the juce is all this row about?' and hiccup out for another bottle of 'fiz,' then lay their aching heads on their hands, or loll back in their hansom, indifferent to all save devoutly wishing the horrible nauseating sickness would leave them. Such a sight as the Grand Stand at Epsom is not to be imagined; it must be seen to be believed.

The roar of thousands of voices in the distance, the yells, the shoutings, the waving of hats, that lasts during those agonizing three minutes! it seems as if all were seized with a sudden frenzy, and so they are the frenzy of excitement.

At last a scarlet and black cap is seen in the front rank.

Oats, in a canter!' from hundreds of throats.

'No such thing!' from a voice that was heard above all; it's • Tearaway making the running.'

"Oats beaten off!' from another stentorian voice. Gameboy for ' ever! Blue wins!'

'By heavens' said Sir Frederick, with his glasses to his eyes, 'Oats is not in the leading lot; it is the brown horse making the running at a terrific pace. Ah! there he is,' he exclaimed, as the sun flashed on the beautiful bay. Ned is lying well up in the 'second ruck.'

Two horsemen alone are stationary on a part of the downs where they commanded a fair view. The reins, which are dropped, are seized and held by half a score of urchins. Both gentlemen's glasses seem glued to their eyes, but not a word is spoken as yet.

'Tearaway making the running-it is a cracker!' exclaimed Captain Portman, at last. But where is Oats ?'

There he is,' replied his companion, in the middle of a lot; rare tailing already. There he is, coming out from his horses; he will be with the leading ones at the Corner; he is hard held.'

At the Corner, that well-known Corner, there is a bunch of animals, which have cost fortunes to bring to their present splendid condition, and fortunes are depending on them; but Oats is not amongst them; his rider did not hug the cords, he knew the danger of it; he comes, as a sailor would express it, midships,' or rather on the outside, and waits for the favourable moment to get through his horses.

That young head is on old shoulders; and, moreover, he knows his horse; no use has been made of him yet, and he is full of

running; he is bearing somewhat impatiently on his bridle, chafing for the moment that steady strain on his jaws may be relaxed. Wait, gallant horse, patience for a few moments!

Barely half the horses are now in the struggle; of the thirty odd that started only twelve or fifteen seem, to the frenzied multitude, to be in the race; but, in reality, there are not more than three or four dangerous.

How that mass heaves and surges to and fro! It is a brave, stout building to stand the strain.

"Oats!' 'Gameboy!' Bluemire!' Melody Colt !' 'Tearaway!' 'Non Est!' Every one shouts for his favourite; the partisans of each stable are mad.

Now the strain on Oats' jaw is a little eased, and he lays himself down to work.

'Dash me,' said Ned Stockman to himself, but he pulls a bit! No, no, my noble joker !' he muttered, through his clenched teeth; 'I cannot indulge you yet. I can't afford to let you have your own way, my boy! upon my solemn dick I can't!'

Tearaway has shot his bolt and dropped back. Never mind, good horse, you have done what was required of you, and done it well, too. You won't be last either-you'll come again presently. The distance is reached. Most are calling on their animals; one alone sits patient, steady, and firm; he knows the time has not yet arrived to make his effort. Bar accidents, he has got them.

The multitude roar now. 'Black and red!' Blue! Yellow!' 'Oats wins.' 'No, no, Gameboy in a canter!' is shouted by the hoarse throats of the interested.

Glance at that carriage of Sir Frederick's, those anxious blanched faces, quivering with the agony of excitement. Look at those two immovable horsemen sitting like statues, with their glasses to their eyes.

A grim smile illuminates the face of the Captain as he sees Óats draw up. Splendidly ridden! I've done the trick, I think,' he muttered. I have nearly landed my boy at last.'

Jack's hand trembles as he holds the glasses; an agonising moment to him; a few seconds more will decide it; he cannot speak, for his throat is parched and dry.

Along came those gay and flashing jackets. Black and red is in a more prominent position now.

'By Heavens, Oats will lose the race!' more than one exclaimed; why does not Ned send his horse along?'

'That comes of putting a tailor up, who has never ridden a race, an unknown hand-shameful usage to the public.'

'Wait!' roars out the stentorian voice again.

The whip arms are now at work, but still that horseman in the black and scarlet never lifts his hand. Nevertheless, his quick eye glances about anxiously.

Now, old man,' he mutters; it is getting too close to be pleasant. I must set you going for a bit, till I shake my friend in 'the blue off.'