he was expatiating on steeplechasing, hurdle-racing, weights for age, ons and offs clever -- a sort of mixture of hunting, racing, and ‘Alken.’

Sponge cocked his ear, and sat on the watch, occasionally hazarding an observation, while Jack, who was next Pacey, on the left, pretended to decry Sponge’s judgement, asking sotto voce, with a whiff through his nose, what such a cockney as that could know about horses? What between Jack’s encouragement, and the inspiring influence of the bottle, aided by his own self-sufficiency, Pacey began to look upon Sponge with anything but admiration; and at last it occurred to him that he would be a very proper subject to, what he called ‘take the shine out of.’

‘That isn’t a bad-like nag, that chestnut of yours, for the wheeler of a coach, Mr Sponge,’ exclaimed he, at the instigation of Spraggon, to our friend, producing, of course, a loud guffaw from the party.

‘No, he isn’t,’ replied Sponge, coolly; adding, ‘very like one, I should say.’

‘Devilish good horse,’ growled Jack in Pacey’s ear.

‘Oh, I dare say,’ whispered Pacey, pretending to be scraping up the orange syrup in his plate; adding, ‘I’m only chaffing the beggar.’

‘He looks solitary without the coach at his tail,’ continued Pacey, looking up, and again addressing Sponge up the table.

‘He does,’ affirmed Sponge, amidst the laughter of the party.

Pacey didn’t know how to take this; whether as a ‘sell’ or a compliment to his own wit. He sat for a few seconds grinning and staring like a fool; at last, after gulping down a bumper of claret, he again fixed his unmeaning green eyes upon Sponge, and exclaimed:

‘I’ll challenge your horse, Mr Sponge.’

A burst of applause followed the announcement; for it was evident that amusement was in store.

‘You’ll w-h-a-w-t?’ replied Sponge, staring, and pretending ignorance.

‘I’ll challenge your horse,’ repeated Pacey with confidence, and in a tone that stopped the lingering murmur of conversation, and fixed the attention of the company on himself.

‘I don’t understand you,’ replied Sponge, pretending astonishment.

‘Lor bless us! why where have you lived all your life?’ asked Pacey.

‘Oh, partly in one place, and partly in another,’ was the answer.

‘I should think so,’ replied Pacey, with a look of compassion; adding, in an under tone, ‘a good deal with your mother I should think.’

‘If you could get that horse at a moderate figure,’ whispered Jack to his neighbour, and squinting his eyes inside out as he spoke, ‘he’s well worth having.’

‘The beggar won’t sell him,’ muttered Pacey, who was fonder of talking about buying horses than of buying them.

‘Oh yes, he will,’ replied Jack; ‘he didn’t understand what you meant. Mr Sponge,’ said he, addressing himself slowly and distinctly up the table to our hero -- ‘Mr Sponge, my friend Mr Pacey here challenges your chestnut.’